


There's No Sun In Heaven

by arbitrary_introvert



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Captured Dean Winchester, Captured Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Slave, Dean Winchester captured, Dean Winchester injured, Dean Winchester kidnapped, Dean Winchester sick, Dean Winchester tortured, Dean tortured by heaven, Destiel - Freeform, Hurt Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam, Hurt Sammy, Injured Dean, Kidnapped Dean, Kidnapped Sam Winchester, Kind Castiel, M/M, Master Castiel, Michael's a dick, Protective Castiel, Sam Winchester Kidnapped, Sam Winchester captured, Sam Winchester hurt, Sam Winchester injured, Sam and Dean Winchester slave fanfiction, Sam and Dean captured by heaven, Sam tortured by heaven, Sastiel - Freeform, Sick Dean Winchester, Slave Dean, Slave Dean Winchester, Slave Sam, Slave Sam Winchester, Slave Sammy, So's God, Supportive Castiel, Tortured Dean, Tortured Dean Winchester, Tortured Sam, Tortured Sam Winchester, captured dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2019-10-28 19:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17793629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitrary_introvert/pseuds/arbitrary_introvert
Summary: No one saw it coming.Sam and Dean Winchester were only two of the millions of remaining humans left alive on earth after the war with heaven. But when earth is defeated, the angels respond with a massacre, and after that, the few left living are sold into slavery for angels to do with them what they please.Luckily for Sam and Dean, there's one angel and who might not be so bad after all.ORCastiel sees two humans about to be sold to separate owners in the slave market. He decides to step in and help keep them together.





	1. Sam

Blood was everywhere. 

It covered Sam's clothes, his skin, his hair. It was soaked into the grass. Buildings were splattered with it. Above, with the haze of the clouds overhead, even the sky seemed to bleed. A water droplet hit the back of Sam's hand. Interesting. Perhaps the sky was weeping, too. 

Sam blinked wearily, pushing himself up, up off the ground. His head hurt. His arm hurt, too. Was it broken? Probably. No, this had to stop. He was thinking too fast. Sam forced himself to stop, go over what had happened. 

The angels had seemed to erupt from the sky. They slaughtered humans left and right without mercy, adults and children alike. There hadn't seemed to be a purpose or any reason to it. Who died, who was killed, it all seemed random. And for what? Those few who were left over, what were they for? And those who had died... Sam nudged the hand of a man lying next to him, testing to see if he was alive.

He wasn't.

Speaking of being alive, where was—

"Dean?" 

Sam's voice sounded far away and distant with the ringing in his ears. Plus, the terror, the panic he associated with losing his older brother didn't help much as he scrambled to stand up. Dean couldn't be dead. No, no, he couldn't be. Sam couldn't handle being alone. Not after what he had just witnessed, all the murder, the screams, the begging. He needed Dean. 

"Dean?" Sam called again. More panic. " _Dean!_ "

The sky continued to weep. Rainwater mixed with blood, making a river through the war-torn street. Sam's heart was in his throat as he limped through the debris and bodies. Surely Dean had to be here somewhere.

He had to be. 

"Goddammit, where are you?" Sam shouted. "Dean—"

There was a sound from behind him. Sam jumped, whirling around, expecting to see an angel standing there. His thoughts raced, _oh God no not an angel I can't fight right now I'll lose I don't have an angel blade but I don't wanna die shit what do I do—_

"Christ, Sammy." 

It was Dean.

"Oh, God," whispered Sam, nearly dropping to his knees with relief. 

"I'm here, you don't gotta holler so much, okay? I'll always find you," Dean said reproachfully, hurrying over to check on him. "Are you hurt? Where? God, what happened to your arm?"

Sam swallowed, allowing himself an almost hysterical laugh. "Broke it somehow," he said, "Probably an angel. Don't know why it let me live afterward, though."

"Yeah, weird. The angels didn't really have a pattern when it comes to who they let live and who's gonna be eating dandelions by the roots, ya know?" Dean took off his jacket and started fashioning a sling for Sam's arm with it. Sam noticed that he had a deep cut in his upper arm; a knife wound. It was from an angel blade by the looks of it. Sam would have almost been angry on his brother's behalf but in all truthfulness, he was just too tired to be anything but devastated.

"You got hurt, too, Dean," Sam pointed out quietly.

"Yeah," his older brother said while tying the sling, "You can pay me back by stitching me up when we find a safe place to hide, okay? But for now, we gotta split. We don't know when the angels are coming back. Any living we can help along the way?"

"Some — but there was only a few and they either left or are going crazy."

"Okay. We'll come back and check later," said Dean, "But you and I need to go now. Do you think the car survived?"

The two stuck together, heading back down the opposite way in search for the hopefully intact Impala. The rain, which was now a downpour, soaked into their hair and clothes and washed away much of the blood. Sam watched the crimson red swirl around his feet before weaving through stones and bodied that littered the street, finally disappearing into a stormdrain. At least he felt a little cleaner. Well, and cold.

He accidentally stepped on someone's hand. The corpse's knuckle joints popped out of place. 

Sam winced and hurried to catch up to Dean, feeling sick. 

"I don't see the car," said Dean with a frown, "Do you think it was totaled?"

"I don't know, I just wanna get out of here, Dean," said Sam honestly, cold and wet and honestly pretty fucking freaked out after everything he had seen in the massacre that day. 

"I hear ya, Sammy. Okay, no car. That sucks. I guess... Let's get to that stretch of woods over there. At least we'll have some cover while we come up with a plan."

Sam was about to nod when he heard the dreadful sound of feathers ruffling and wings flapping that he had come to associate with death, pain, and bloodshed. There had to be an angel behind him. Judging by the echo of the sound, there was more than one. Terror shot up his spine. Dean gripped his arm tight. 

"Don't move," said a cold, smooth voice, whose eloquence and emphasis on each word was enough to make Sam's blood run cold. "If you have any weapons, now would be a good time to drop them."

Sam had a small knife hidden in his sleeve, but he looked at Dean, waiting to see his brother's reaction before he gave it up. Dean appeared to be thinking hard. His eyes flicked back and forth like he was plotting escape routes. He locked eyes with Sam for a half a second, then turned to face the angels. 

There were three of them. Two who they didn't recognize where standing slightly behind the one in front. Sam squinted at this angel's face. Didn't he know this one from somewhere? He had seen that face in a book somewhere along the line. The angel held his head high, appearing confident, the sound of his voice emitting power and a tone that said he was used to getting what he wanted. And in the few cases he didn't get what he wanted, he took it. 

Then Sam realized with a jolt that he was staring into the face of none other than the archangel Michael. 

"No weapons here, compadre," said Dean, raising his hands in the air to show he was unarmed. Heart racing, Sam did the same. 

The other angels drew their angel blades, but Michael stopped them with but a wave of his hand. Then he stepped forward. The corner of his lip turned upward. "What are your names?"

"My name?" Dean seemed confused that the angel was doing a little more talky-talky than the stabby-stabby that was typical of angels. "I'm Dean. This is—"

"You don't speak for him. Tell me, boy," said Michael, abruptly cutting off Dean before he could finish and leaning dangerously close to Sam's face, "What's your name?"

Sam swallowed, glancing at Dean before answering, "Sam."

"Sam what?"

"Winchester."

Michael nodded slowly, not taking his eyes of Sam's face. "Do you know each other?"

Dean lied and said no, but Sam made the mistake of nodding and saying yes at the same time. The brothers froze. Sam felt his face burn when he realized that Dean had probably had a plan and that he had just messed it up. 

"Liars, I see," said Michael softly. 

"Hey, Sam didn't—" Dean started to protest. 

Michael cut him off again. "We've found the Winchesters, that's all I cared about. Take them."

The two angels started forward before Sam had even had time to process what had happened. Take them where? His heart started to beat rapidly in his chest. 

Dean backed away, looking like a caged animal while he tried to come up with a plan. Finally, he gave up. "Sammy, run!" Dean had always been one to go into a fight with guns blazing, but he knew they were weaponless and even though he was often reckless he wasn't a fool. Dean knew better than to take this fight. Sam trusted him, so he obeyed. 

The next thing he knew he and Dean were sprinting in the opposite direction. Every step was painful, each breath seared in his lungs. The rain made the ground slippery and difficult to run on besides. Sam knew something was wrong with his ankle but he tried to push on. 

"C'mon, Sammy, we gotta get to the woods, then we can... Sam?"

Dean stopped, turning back to grab Sam by the arm, who had stopped running from exhaustion and pain. "I can't, Dean," he gasped, chest heaving, "You can go without me, but I can't—"

"Bullshit," snapped Dean, pulling him up. "I'll go at your pace as long as we _go_." The angels were closing in on them, fast and with blades drawn. 

Sam took a deep breath and prepared to start running again. It still hurt, that wasn't going to change. But they were getting closer to the line of trees, closer to a better chance of survival, of not being taken to wherever the angels were trying to bring them. But the angels were getting closer, too. Sam could hear their footsteps pounding against the ground not too far behind. Then, a voice in his ear. 

"You can't run from us," said one of the angels, and then her iron-like grip wrapped around his throat from behind. 

The other angel grabbed onto Dean, forced him to the ground with a well-aimed kick to his abdomen. Sam struggled to breathe. The angel's supernatural strength allowed her to lift him so that his toes barely skimmed the ground, her grip crushing, depriving him of the oxygen he so desperately needed. His fingers scrabbled weakly at her hands that wrapped around his throat so painfully. 

"Get off my brother!" Dean shouted, his voice sounding far away, but then the angel hit him squarely on the temple with the handle of his angel blade and Dean went limp. 

Sam gasped out loud, wordlessly begging for air. His vision started to go dark around the edges. Still, he barely managed to see a figure approach them. Michael leisurely walked back up to where he and his brother were being forced to submission and soon to be an abduction, his lips still twisted up in that awful smirk, acting as though he didn't give a care in the world.

"You shouldn't have tried to run away," said Michael quietly to Sam, "You wouldn't have got very far. Or, excuse me, you _didn't_ get very far. Ah, well. It was brave of you, anyway."

His hand reached, pushing a strand of Sam's ratted, bloodsoaked hair behind his hair. Pain shot through Sam's lungs as he gave one last weak, feeble attempt to inhale. 

Then the blackness that surrounded the edge of his vision swallowed everything as he fell unconscious.

*****

Sam fought the urge to throw up when acid and the taste of his own blood burned the back of his throat and coated his mouth. 

He was lying on a bed, staring up at a white ceiling. He jolted forward in a panic; his thoughts were scattered in a million pieces that were only able to formulate one single comprehensible thought: _Dean._

Sam's head hurt, his chest ached, and everything was in pain, but still he tried to force himself to stand and search for his brother. He needed to find Dean. He needed to make sure that his brother was okay so that they could escape, so that they could go back home. When he tried to sit up, however, a sudden force jerked him back down.

Sam gasped when a thick metal band around his neck pressed up against his bruised and sore throat. His ankles and wrists were also held down, pinned against the hard bed with metal cuffs. It took several seconds for Sam to recover from the pain in his neck due to being choked out when the angels had kidnapped them.

“Dean,” he rasped out, wincing at the discomfort speaking brought his throat. 

“Here, Sammy.”

“Where? I-I can’t move my head.”

“Literally right here, dude. If you can’t see then use your ears. You can’t always rely on your eyes, remember?”

Right. Even in a situation like this, Dean was always trying to help Sam be a better hunter, to ensure he survived. Sam swallowed. Knowing that Dean was calm and was reacting to what was happening to them with such normalcy — even if he was just pretending for Sam’s sake — helped Sam calm down a little, too. 

“Okay. I— You’re to my right,” he said, exhaling a little. “Your bed is against the opposite wall.”

“I knew you were smart enough to figure it out,” said Dean. “Just for the record, I can see you a tiny bit if I look really, really far down and to my right.”

“Good to know? Dean, where are we?”

Dean paused.

“Heck, I guess I don’t know, Sam. Heaven, maybe? Yeah, probably heaven.”

Panic surged. “Are we dead?!”

“Hey, I didn’t that!”

“How else could we be in h—?”

The soft sound of a door being opened echoed against the stark white walls of the room. Sam fell silent, straining to see who had come in as footsteps drew nearer. Wait, not just footsteps, but two sets of them.

“Here we are,” said a voice Sam didn’t recognize. “The shorter one first, I believe.”

There was a scribbling sound as the other angel marked something down on a clipboard. “Okay. Take him to sanitary.”

“Excuse you,” Dean snapped, “Take me where?”

The angels paid no mind, as though Dean were just an annoying dog barking when someone knocked on the door. The first voice said to the other, “Oh, right, here’s the gag.”

“The _what?_ Oh, hell no, lady, you better back up or—”

Dean’s voice was suddenly muffled. The words became smothered but Sam could still hear anger there as Dean struggled against the gag that had been cruelly forced into his mouth. A chill ran down his spine.

“Where are you taking him?” He asked, forcing all of his will into keeping his voice steady.

The angels ignored him. Sam heard the sound of wheels squeaking; he assumed that the beds they were cuffed to had the ability to be pushed on wheels like in hospitals to make them easier to transport.

“Don’t hurt him!” Sam yelled as they left the room. Dean’s muffled protests grew further and further away until the door slammed shut and Sam was left alone there, his heart beating rapidly in his chest as he tried to wrap his mind around what had just happened. 

What the hell was sanitary, and were they going to take Sam there, too? What was all of this for? Why hadn’t the angels killed them yet? There were too many questions, not enough answers. It was enough to make his already hurting head hurt even more.

 _God, I don’t know if you’re there or if you give a fuck, but your angels are going nuts. They’re hurting people. I don’t think this is what you intended them to be for, so if you wanna come back…_ In his desperation, Sam prayed. _Uh… Sincerely, Sam Winchester._ Yeah, that sounded like a good way to end a prayer, right?

About a half hour later, the door opened again. This time there was only one set of footsteps. Sam held his breath as they drew nearer.

When the angel was close enough, Sam was able to peer out the corner of his eye and see a short female with large brown eyes and long hair. She scratched something off on a clipboard similar to the one that the other angel had carried before giving Sam a long once-over.

Sam blushed dark red. “What do you want?”

The angel blinked and didn’t reply. She seemed to think she was above talking to him.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, clear bag. She unzipped it and retrieved a thick leather strap from inside. Sam recognized it as a gag.

“Get that thing away from me. Get it away.” Sam jerked his head back as she moved to shove the strap between his teeth. “You’re not getting that thing in my mouth!”

The angel rolled her eyes. Then she grabbed him by the hair and jerked back, hard. Sam felt his scalp tear and burn and he opened his mouth to cry out, which just so happened to be just enough time for her to get the gag in.

“Stupid human fly,” she muttered under her breath.

Sam took several deep breaths through his nose as she took her place behind the head of the bed and began to push it towards the door. Don’t panic, he reminded himself, don’t panic, don’t panic. Find Dean. Don’t panic.

The hallway outside the room was every bit as white and spotless as the room itself. There were other doors set about three yards apart from each other that led into different rooms. The first place that the angel took him was what Sam could only assume had to be the ‘sanitary’ that the others had referred to. Sanitary had three others there with cold, gloved hands ready to sponge-bathe Sam’s entire body.

They had done his entire upper half, including his broken arm with which they had been none too gentle. When one of the angels tried to remove his pants, however, Sam panicked, a sharp cry emitting from the back of his throat that not even the gag could hold back. He jerked against his bonds. The angel’s hands paused.

“Don’t get too concerned,” said the previous angel with a wave of her hand, “They’re all the same when it comes to nudity. It’s a silly human thing.”

“Is that why they all act with such regret upon the removal of their clothing?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, to the humans nudity is some form of intimacy.”

“Interesting.”

_No, no, no, no, nonononono—_

The angels proceeded with the removal of his pants and didn’t hesitate with taking away his underwear, either. Exposed to the cold air and multiple sets of merciless gazes, a tightness in his chest that he couldn’t ignore made tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Sam had to struggle not to cry.

“Why are his eyes wet?”

“Are you a neophyte? Anyone who’s had this job for very long is aware that they cry all the time. Humans are sensitive creatures.”

The angels sponged down his whole lower half. Their touch was rough and they didn’t seem to care about the bruises that he was covered in, nor did they care about cleaning intimate parts of his body that made Sam want to go curl up in a hole somewhere upon being touched.

They washed his hair, and then they were done.

“Okay, heal him up. We need to get him clothing and show him to Balthazar before he can be displayed,” said the angel. Once again she made a mark on her clipboard, probably checking off that Sam had been 'sanitized.'

Sam’s body was shivering due to the cold and his intense discomfort. His forearms strained against the cuffs on his wrists almost involuntarily because the instinct to cover his nakedness was so intense. When one of the angels removed the glove on their hand and moved to touch his forehead, he flinched and gave an embarrassing yelp.

They responded with amused chuckles and smiles, ignoring his fear. The angel pressed two fingertips to his temple. A feeling like ice seemed to trickle down his whole body and in an instant the cold feeling overwhelmed the pain. And when the cold faded, so had Sam’s injuries. 

“Send him off for clothes, then. Get the next one in here.”

The clothes ended up being simple white scrubs and soft socks. Thankfully he was given underwear. Having to be dressed by someone else as though he were a toddler was humiliating, sure, but Sam was definitely grateful to be covered up again. Despite this he still wasn’t very comforted. His stomach churned as his bed was pushed out of the room and further down the hall to a huge set of double doors at its very end.

The doors opened seemingly by themselves and the angel was able to push Sam’s bed through them with seemingly no effort on her part. Still unable to look anywhere but up, Sam stared at the ceiling passing by overhead, trying to reel in his thoughts and stay calm.

“Sir,” said the angel, “Here’s the next one.”

The squeaking of the wheels came to a stop. Sam held his breath.

“Oh, he’s tall. Attractive, too,” mused a voice Sam had never heard before. A face appeared directly above his field of vision and he was able to make out slightly tanned face paired with dark blonde hair that laid flat on his head with blue eyes. Was this Balthazar? Probably. “What was his previous name?”

 _Previous name?_ Sam wondered, his eyebrows furrowing while the other angel checked her clipboard. “Winchester, Samuel,” she said.

“That can’t be right, Ambriel.” Balthazar waved her —Ambriel — off. So that was her name, then. “We’ve already had a Winchester in here.”

“When humans have multiple offspring they take the same last name, sir. It’s actually common for a human to meet another human who has the same name, first or last.”

“Really? Odd. Why they don’t all have one completely unique name with a specific meaning is beyond me,” said Balthazar. He felt a piece of Sam’s hair, touched the skin of his cheek, proceeding to prod the muscle of Sam’s shoulder with the tip of his finger. “Yes, he is attractive, isn’t he? Pity he’s so tall. Since he’s obviously built for strength he’ll have to be a laborer.”

“You’d rather he be something else?” She asked.

“He’s attractive enough to be a pleasurer if he wasn’t so clearly cut out for hard work. He would be very gratifying to some of our clients,” said Balthazar with a sigh. “Shame. Ah, well, maybe it was supposed to be that way. Between him and his brother we get both.”

Okay, Sam had no clue what a pleasurer was, but that was apparently what Dean had been forced into and it didn’t sound good. Sam tried to say something, but what, he wasn’t sure. Anything to get their attention, to maybe convince them to take off the gag, to release he and Dean. _Something_

“Oh, shush, you.” Balthazar booped Sam’s nose, then turned back to Ambriel. “Alright, put him on display with the others.”

 _Stop._ The word was one Sam wished he could say, but he knew that even if he could it would have little meaning to the angels. He began to struggle against the bonds, shouting through the gag, giving as much hassle as he could.

“I said shush.” Balthazar gave him a stern look. It was actually the first time an angel had acknowledged Sam or spoke to him directly.

When Sam didn’t stop, Balthazar reared back and slapped him hard. Balthazar’s supernatural angel strength made the blow ten times more powerful then it would have normally been. Sam felt blood flood his mouth when he accidentally bit his tongue, the pain and force of the blow sending his vision black for almost an entire minute.

Unable to gather his thoughts, lost in terror, and without the ability to recover from such a powerful blow, Sam began to cry silently as he was wheeled out of the room and seemingly farther away from Dean.


	2. Dean

The sound of heavy breathing bounced off the glass and reverberated through the air, bringing life to the tension expelled from Dean's lungs with each disconcerted breath.

He had never been so pissed off. 

First, he had been strapped down to a bed, taken away from Sam, _stripped_ , felt up by a bunch of freaky-ass angels to be 'sanitized,' and now he was on display in a tiny glass box for angels to stare at him. Oh, yeah, and he was still separated from Sam, which was a massive problem in and of itself. 

Dean closed his eyes for a moment and leaned against the wall of his box. He felt like a freaking mother hen; he was going completely crazy not knowing if Sam was okay. Had his little brother had to go through the same nightmarish-process of being stripped and sponge-bathed? Probably. If so, Sam was definitely losing his mind. Not to patronize the kid but Sammy had always been more sensitive, more reserved. The sooner he and Dean were reunited the better. 

“Dammit,” muttered Dean under his breath. 

For the millionth time, he scanned his surroundings, desperately hoping for even a glimpse of the tall, gangly form he associated with his younger brother. However, being on 'display' in a box kind of made it difficult. 

The box was actually a small room, just one of many that stretched on along either side of a long hallway. It was about seven feet by seven feet of pure discomfort because while three walls of the nightmare cube were regular white walls, the one that opened to the hallway was pure glass, which allowed angels to peer inside and stare at him. The angels wandered this hallway the same way soccer moms checked out the produce aisle, each looking for a human to take home. It wasn't like it was hard; there had to be hundreds of these boxes and each one had a person inside waiting with trepidation to be sold. 

Dean drew his lips back to show his teeth as a couple of angels got too close, inspecting him with actual consideration. But then they saw the snarl, and seeming to find his rude expression unattractive, soon left with wrinkled noses to look at someone else. 

_That's what I thought, assholes,_ thought Dean bitterly and went back to looking for Sam. The box was terribly confining, however, and didn't allow him to look too far down the hall. It was designed so that the angels could see in and he couldn't see out. _Whatever. Won't stop Dean Winchester, that's for sure. Now find Sam._

Time went by and Dean started to lose hope. What if Sam was in a different box, just too far away for him to see? What if he had already been bought? He tried to push these thoughts away but was actually forced to consider them as half an hour turned to an hour and then into another. 

"C'mon, where are you?" Dean muttered to himself. 

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Dean barely managed to see a tall shape flanked by two others approaching a box not too far away. Dean couldn't see to well past the walls of his own, but he would recognize that long princess hair anywhere. That had to be Sam.

Sure enough, as the slave was shoved into the box by the two angels, Dean was able to somewhat clearly see Sam there. His hair was still damp from being sanitized, and unless Dean's eyes deceived him, there was a mottled bruise under his eye. One of those angel fucks hit him. 

Dean pounded on the glass with the flat of his hand. "Sam!" He shouted, "Sammy, I'm over here!" Goddamn soundproof glass. Dean hadn't attracted Sam's attention. Instead, a flock of angels gathered around to see what was going on. They effectively blocked Dean's already narrowed view. 

He scowled at all of them. Sam was hurt and definitely scared. Dean needed to be over there to help him and these angels didn't give two flying fucks. 

"Get out of the way," Dean growled even though they couldn't hear him. 

One of the angels threw back his head and laughed as if this was amusing. After a second, Dean realized with a start that it was none other than Michael, the one who had put him and Sam in this hellhole in the first place. And he was _laughing_. Then, with his patented smirk, Michael locked eyes with Dean, as if daring him to do something about it. Dean felt sick to his stomach with rage. 

Well, and fear. 

Dean would never let Sam know this, of course, but he was actually scared shitless when it came to angels. He had seen them kill way too many people and many of the people killed had been friends and family. He had seen up close what they were capable of. Michael especially. Dean's knees turned to jelly; his instinct was to be smart and try to save himself by dropping his gaze. But he couldn't do that. 

Dean summoned his remaining anger and used it to drive his fist into the glass, directly where Michael's face would be if it weren't for the glass barrier. 

The skin over his knuckles split immediately and blood began to appear over the scraped skin and flesh. He allowed himself a shaky breath to steady himself but other than that and a wince, he kept his expression cold and even. 

"You piece of crap," he spat out. Even though Michael scared him it was easy to pretend his fear was anger instead and let the feeling flow through him. 

The glass didn’t shatter. Hell, it didn’t even shake. Michael hadn’t flinched. The other angels reacted strongly, though, they appeared shocked that Dean would dare defy an archangel. 

“Come at me, you sons of bitches!” Dean yelled, smacking the glass again but with the flat of his hand this time. 

The angels murmured to each other; Michael smiled an unsettling smile. Then he turned and murmured into the ear of a uniformed angel standing next to Dean’s box, an angel who obviously worked in this hellhole. Dean felt fear again but he forced it down and glared. If looks could kill, Michael would be dead and buried. Good. 

Michael was thinking of buying him, then. Well, his mistake. Nothing could take down a Winchester and especially not a royally pissed Winchester. 

“What, are you gonna take me home?” Dean demanded, “Big mistake, buddy. I’ll leave a shit on your pillow and kill you in your fucking sl—”

Then his eyes followed the direction Michael was gesturing and realized it wasn't towards him. Michael was pointing at Sam's box instead. The archangel gave a little wave, the nasty smirk still there, and he and the uniformed angel turned to walk over to where Sam was imprisoned. Dean felt his heart stutter in his chest. 

_Oh God, no._

Spite, it had to be spite. Dean and pissed Michael off, or just annoyed him more like, and now the archangel was gonna take it out on Sam. Dean pounded against the glass, ignoring the pain the shot through his injured hand. “Michael, leave him alone. Get back over here. Michael!”

Michael ignored him. 

Dean saw Sam freeze when he realized that Michael was walking towards him. Then, it fully occurred to the younger Winchester that Michael was going to take him and the panic set in. When Michael's hand wrapped around the human's forearm in a grip so tight it had to be painful, Sam began to tremble and struggle, desperation in his features. Dean couldn't hear what Sam was saying and he could barely see, but he knew when his name was on his brother's lips, and Sam was definitely asking for him. No, begging. 

Dean flew into a rage when he saw tears on his brother's bruised face. 

“ _Sammy!_ ” Dean was so desperate to be heard through the soundproof glass that his throat ached at the volume of his cry. “Michael, you let him go, don’t you take him. You hear? Hey, I said let him _go!_ ”

By some miracle of God himself, a whisper of Dean's cry must've escaped the glass prison. It was barely there but it seemed enough for Sam to hear, his head turning abruptly while he struggled against Michael even more. His eyes frantically searched the busy hallway until his panicked gaze met Dean's. 

Since Michael had expected Sam to be a good, terrified little human, he was caught off guard when Sam suddenly wrenched away and pushed through the crowd of angels until he was in front of Dean's box. His hands were flat against the other side of the glass, pushing with all his might to try to get to Dean. His eyes were wide with fright and swimming with tears. 

“Sam, Sam, you’re okay, you’re gonna be okay. Do you understand? You’re gonna be okay but only if you listen to me and run. Right now, Sammy, run!” Dean knew that if Sam was gonna get away, or have even a chance of it, he needed to take off while the angels were still surprised. To his dismay, Sam didn't run. 

Instead, Sam was shaking his head. He was saying something but the words were lost through the sound-absorbing qualities of the glass.

Then Michael was there again. 

Sam backed away from the archangel, appearing almost as though he were begging. Michael didn’t care. He grabbed Sam by the wrist, twisted, then pushed down. Sam cried out in pain and was forced to his knees. 

“Stop hurting him!” Dean’s vision went red. 

The uniformed angel from before hurried over with two pairs of silver cuffs that were linked together with a strong chain. They were snapped around Sam’s ankles and his wrists. The length of the chain was handed to Michael. 

Michael yanked on it and Sam pitched forward, unable to catch himself with his hands cuffed behind his back. He hit the floor hard. The angels gathered to watch laughed. 

“Stop it!” Dean didn’t know what to do and he was powerless to help, which he hated. “Michael, stop it, just leave him alone. Stop!”

Michael heaved Sam up to his feet. Sam’s nose was bleeding, his body shaking, eyes turned towards Dean. He struggled to get back to Dean’s box but Michael held him in place. He yanked the chain in the other direction. Sam tried to fight it, he really did, but a human was like an ant compared to the strength of an angel. He started to get farther and farther away as he was dragged down the hall. 

Dean’s vision blurred. Sam couldn’t survive on his own. Dean was the only one who understood him and without that Sam would crumble apart under the weight of everything that was happening to him. What if Michael hurt him and he was left all alone? What if—

Dean drew several shuddering breaths. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t.

Suddenly he was staring into a blue so startling and deep that Dean was ripped out of his state of panic. 

He caught sight of an angel standing in the crowd. This angel was different from the others. His eyes, a bright ocean blue, looked at Dean with pity. It was the first sign of empathy Dean had ever seen from an angel in his entire life. 

Ordinarily, Dean hated angels and would never ask for help. But this time he knew this could be the only chance he would ever have of seeing Sam again. He focused on the pity that he saw and reached to take advantage of it. Whether or not it would work was uncertain but he was desperate. 

“Please,” Dean knew the angel couldn’t hear him, but it was more about what the angel saw than anything else. “My brother. Please save him. Don’t let Michael take him.” He let tears fall. It wasn’t exactly hard, he just had to stop fighting them.

The angel's pitying expression flickered into a sad, almost apologetic smile. He gave his head a small shake. Then he began to walk away. 

“No!” Dean hit the glass, his voice breaking with desperation. “You can’t say that. You’re the only one who can— Who can—”

Dean’s ability to speak was lost in panic when he was forced to actually consider the fact that Sam might be lost to him. The floor seemed to sway beneath his feet, his breaths coming in rapid gasps. 

“Not Sam,” he found himself whispering as he sank to the floor, “Not Sammy.”

The angels seemed to find his grief interesting and stopped looking at other boxes, peering directly into his. Dean hated their collective gaze that seemed to burn holes into his body with their intensity. He drew his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around them, hiding his face in his arms so they didn’t see. 

_Michael’s gonna hurt him and Sam can’t take that it’ll break him he_ needs _me—_

The sound of wings flapping burst in his ear and Dean jumped, nearly falling over. Once again, he was staring into that same blue, the bluest he had ever seen.

The angel didn’t say anything at first. Then he extended his hand. Dean ducked, expecting a blow because he had never known anything but cruelty at an angel’s fist, but seemed that the angel was only trying to help him up.

Could this possibly...?

Dean didn't want to try his luck but he accepted the hand that was offered, standing shakily on his feet. "Are you gonna help me?" He finally dared ask. 

The angel's brow furrowed. 

"Why is he so important to you?"

“He’s my brother." Dean had to struggle to keep his voice from breaking. 

The angel seemed confused at that. Dean backpedaled. He knew he was running out of time if he wanted to reach Sam soon enough so he needed to move fast.

“It’s not like how Michael is your brother. Human siblings are different. We love each other and I—” Dean’s eyes filled with tears but he forced them back— “I said I’d always find him, you know? I’m supposed to protect him.”

The pity was there again, and the angel seemed to be asking honestly as he said, “And why should I help you do that? I’ll be risking my good name for mere humans so you’d best have a sensible reason.” His voice was deep and his head tilted slightly to the side as he spoke. 

“I don’t have anything to offer you. Just—” Dean struggled to find the words but grew frustrated. “If you’re gonna help me, great. But if you’re not then you might as well get the fuck out and leave me alone.”

The angel didn’t move. 

“Well? Are you gonna help me?”

“Watch your tone.”

"You're no different," Dean snapped. “Get out. Get the _fuck_ out!”

The angel moved so quickly that Dean barely saw the motion. The next thing he knew, the angel had a fistful of his shirt and Dean was slammed up against the wall with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs. The hunter gasped, caught off guard to the point of being unable to speak.

“If you want me to help you,” the angel in a tone that was dangerously soft, “You can start with not disrespecting me in front if countless others of my siblings. Do you understand?”

Still beyond formulating a sentence Dean forced himself to nod. “O-okay,” he said quietly. 

“If you want us to catch Michael before he signs the required documents you will hurry and you will allow us to cuff you with no complaint. Again, do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

The angel released him. Dean heard the sound of feathers ruffling that accompanied an angel’s flight and then they were standing outside of the box, in the hallway. Dean winched as the cuffs were fastened around his wrists and ankles tight enough to pinch. Despite this, he didn’t say a word. All that mattered was finding Sammy. He curled his hands into fists when the angel tugged gently on the chain. 

“This way,” he said. The pull was light, not hard enough to hurt or trip him, and Dean followed. 

They passed by box after box, each one containing a human about to be sold into slavery as they hurried to catch up to Michael. At the end of this long hall was a wide archway that led into what looked like a receptionists office. Inside, he could just barely make out Michael bent over a stack of papers, pen in hand. 

Nearby, Sam was kneeling on the ground, a gag shoved in his mouth while his shoulders shook and tears ran down his face. There was another bruise forming on his jaw. Michael had hit him already. His nose was still bleeding; specks of red spotted the front of his white scrubs where the blood had dripped.

Dean almost charged in there. "S—!”

"If you speak," hissed the angel, pulling back on the chain, "You will jeopardize everything and I will place you back into that cubicle immediately. Do you understand?"

Dean pinched the tip of his tongue between his teeth and nodded.

He stayed quiet as the angel entered the room with a calm demeanor, keeping Dean kept behind him and a little to his left. “Michael,” he said, “Wait.”

The sound of a pen scratching lightly on paper came to a stop as the archangel paused, his hand hovering over the blank space for his signature. Dean held his breath. Michael looked up from what he was doing. Then he chuckled. “Never thought I’d see you here, Castiel. I thought you said you find these places distasteful.”

Dean was hardly listening. All he cared about was Sam, who was now looking up at with an expression that said he hardly dared to hope. 

“I find owning things that are empathetic and free-thinking distasteful. Places like this slave market reek of broken souls,” said Castiel, perhaps a bit harshly. Then he stopped himself. “Forgive me, brother. I’ve had an interesting day.”

“Is there anything I can help you with before I finish this contract?”

“Yes — that slave you’re about to buy. I want him.”

Michael paused. Then he laughed. 

“You, Castiel, who has always been so sensitive towards humans, wants a _slave?_ ”

“That one, if you would.”

Michael turned towards Sam. Dean when he saw his little brother flinch, heard an actual whimper when Michael placed his hand on top of Sam’s head. “Oh, you don’t want this one. Bit of a crybaby. Pitiful if you ask me.”

“On the contrary, I do want him and very badly,” Castiel pressed. “You merely got to him first.”

“And why do you want him so? It seems to me like you’ve found another, a pleasurer to say the least.” Michael kept his hand on Sam’s head, running his fingers through Sammy’s hair almost tenderly. 

Dean felt his face turn pink.

“I’ve decided I intend to take them both, but only if you would be so kind. You’ve almost a hundred slaves, brother. What’s one more?” Castiel asked. 

“He has a certain charm that I find attractive,” shrugged Michael. Sam shuddered. 

_Keep your hands off him, you filthy fucking prick,_ thought Dean, wishing he could say the words out loud.

“I will pay you handsomely for him.”

“You’ve nothing I want.”

Dean’s heart sank. His mind started reeling as he tried to come up with a Plan B because this wasn’t working, Michael was going to take Sam. Sam seemed to be thinking this as well because he started silently crying again. The angel he was with, Castiel, appeared to be deep in thought for a moment before taking a different approach.

Castiel hesitated. 

“I’ll accept the job offer you so kindly extended to me yesterday,” he said finally.

This made Michael stop. Then his face split open into a wide grin. “You mean the offer you were so quick to decline?”

“Yes. If the position is still available, I’ll readily accept it in exchange for that slave there.”

Michael gave Cas a long look. “How exciting. Little Castiel, following in his brother’s footsteps.”

Castiel nodded. “Have we come to an agreement?”

“I can’t deny my successor as the future leader of heaven, now can I?” Asked Michael, the grin still there. “I’ve taken the liberty as filling out all the information here, seeing as how I was going to buy him, so all you need to do is sign at the bottom and the slave is yours.” He held out the pen in his hand.

“I thank you and will be in contact with you later this evening to discuss my new position,” said Castiel flatly.

Michael handed him Sam’s chain. Sam’s shoulders sagged with relief. 

“We’ll be in touch,” agreed Michael. He looked at Dean for a moment, then turned back to the other angel. “Be careful with this one. He’s got a temper and needs to know his place.”

“He’ll learn it, I assure you.”

Michael strode from the room. As soon as he was gone, Dean turned to Castiel, asking, “Can I…?”

“Now you may.”

While Castiel busied himself with the documents, Dean rushed to Sam’s side. The first thing he did was pull the gag out of Sam’s mouth, forcing down the anger he felt when he saw the redness and irritation from how roughly it had been forced through Sam’s lips. Sam’s chest was heaving and his breath came in short, panicked bursts. The new bruise on his face was even darker than the first. His eyes were brimming.

“Dean, I— _He—_ ”

“Hey, breathe, Sammy. You’re going to hyperventilate,” Dean said firmly, “Hold my hand. Look at me. I'm not panicking so neither should you. Relax, okay? We’re fine.”

Sam sucked in a few shuddering breaths, trying to force himself to calm down. “Okay.”

“Good. Good job.”

“S-sorry.”

“Don’t say that, bro. I was freaked out, too, but we’re fine now. See? All good here.”

Sam nodded shakily. 

The sound of paper rustling caught both of their attention as Castiel handed a stack of documents to the receptionist. Before the receptionist walked off with the contracts, Dean was able to make out a strange script that he recognized as the angel language Enochian, and Castiel’s flowing signature just below that. His throat grew tight and he had to force down a sick feeling. He and Sam had literally just been bought as if they were livestock.

“It’s complete,” said Castiel with a sigh. “I hope you understand the seriousness of this situation, the both of you.”

“So… Now what?” Dean asked. He hid how nervous he was for Sam's sake.

“We go to my nest and discuss ground rules.” The angel's expression darkened. “And we hope for the sake of all of us that word doesn’t get around too quickly.”

Dean wasn’t sure what that meant, but it definitely didn’t sound good.

*****

What Castiel called his ‘nest’ was actually a small modern house, Dean found out. Everything was very sleek, very clean, and all in shades of black, white, or grey. If one had removed all the furniture it would have looked alarmingly similar to the slave market. 

The starkness of it shocked him and Dean stumbled a bit as he suddenly went from kneeling next to Sam in a reception area to someone’s house. The angel’s preferred method of travel seemed to have surprised Sam, too, who nearly fell on top of Dean. 

Castiel stood not too far away, his expression calm despite the apparent weight of the situation. 

Then the angel came closer to them and reached for Sam. Dean growled, moving in front of his brother. Sam had had enough at the hands of angels for one day; he didn’t need anything more.

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Castiel somewhat sharply, “Your brother has a broken nose and I’d like to heal him.”

“And I’d like you to ask if him if that’s okay before you go touching his face,” Dean fired back.

Castiel pressed his lips together into a thin line as though he were having to fight back frustration before asking quietly, “Do I have your consent to heal you?”

Sam seemed unsure so Dean gave him a nod, letting him know it was okay. “Um, go ahead,” said Sam. He only flinched a little when Castiel’s fingertips came in contact with his forehead. 

Castiel removed Sam’s chains, next. Sam rubbed his wrists with a wince, and Dean saw the red lines that braceleted the skin. They must’ve been bleeding before but thanks to Castiel they weren’t anymore. The bruises on his brother’s face were gone as well. 

“I hope you’ve realized by now that it’s not in my interest to harm you,” said Castiel with a huff. “I would like to heal you as well, now, if that’s alright.”

Dean had forgotten about the busted knuckles he had earned from punching the glass and shrugged. “Go ahead, but don’t get too touchy-feely on me.”

Castiel ignored him and proceeded. The cold, tingly feeling that Dean now recognized as angel grace buzzed through his nerves and he watched the split skin flow back together over the cartilage and flesh of his knuckles. Fucking weird. 

“Your names?” Castiel asked flatly as he stood up. 

“Why do you care?” Dean snapped, standing up to be next to Sam, “I heard you were supposed to change them when you bought us.”

“I am. I did. Legally, with the document I signed. However, I doubt you’d like to actually respond to such titles, so I’ve decided to ask you what you want to be called.” He wandered from the open-concept living room to the kitchen where he retrieved two glasses. Castiel filled them with water and placed them on the granite countertop. “Unless you’d like to be rebranded?”

“No,” said Sam hastily. “I go by Sam.”

“Dean,” said Dean flatly. “So now what? What the hell happened on earth and why are we here?”

Castiel ignored the last bit. “I’d like for both of you to drink some water, please.”

“Not until you answer my question.”

“I’ll answer when you’ve had water. I have to leave soon so if you would like me to respond you should probably hurry.”

 _Friggin’ angels,_ thought Dean angrily. He strode forward, grabbed the glass and deliberately dropped it over the edge of the counter where it shattered on the floor. “Oops.”

It wasn’t until after he completed this action that he considered the consequences of it. Perhaps Castiel would get angry, or maybe he would take it out on Sam. Despite these fears, Dean clenched his jaw and waited for the response. He couldn’t let Castiel know that he was afraid. 

Castiel stared at the shattered glass and water on the floor. Sam’s gaze flickered nervously back and forth between the two of them. 

"Listen," said Castiel after a moment of surprised quiet, "I understand I was harsh when we were at the market. But that was a public setting, and certain behavior is expected of me. I didn't intend for such a tone to carry on here where we're on our own. I promise I'm on your side."

“You just bought me like a bag of groceries, you ass.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed a bit, his head tilting to the side. “Was it not at your request? Did I not save your brother? If anything you’re indebted to me.”

“I don’t owe you shit. You don’t get cool points for doing the bare minimum expected of a decent human being,” snapped Dean. “Or an angel, whatever.”

“I could have left you there. You could have been bought by anyone with any values or lack thereof. Do you even know what a pleasurer is, Dean?” 

Dean dug his nails into his palms to keep his hands from shaking. “I can paint a picture.”

“Would you rather have been taken by someone other than me with no concern for your boundaries or wellbeing? I’m not sure if you’re aware, but pleasurers have the highest insanity rate of any kind of slave. I'm assuming you know why that would be.”

Dean’s face burned red. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Castiel ignored him and continued. “And what about Sam?” Sam stiffened. “What if I hadn’t changed my mind? You may think you understand the extent of Michael’s cruelty after the purge of the earth but trust me, you’ve barely scratched the surface. Michael breaks his slaves. He has them _blinded_ to prevent possible rebellion.”

Sam shuddered violently. Dean glared at Castiel, saying, “Watch it. The kid doesn’t need to hear that.”

“All I’m saying is that I’m trying to help you. I’ve never agreed with slavery and I don’t expect you to serve me or anyone else if you don’t want to. All I ask for is mutual respect,” said the angel calmly, “I won’t hurt you. The only rule I have is that you cannot leave my nest, because if you do you _will_ be caught and brought before Raphael and Michael.”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t exactly trust Castiel but he didn’t necessarily believe that the guy was a liar, either. He seemed to be delivering an honest message. Of course, that didn’t mean Dean had to like it. 

“You don’t want anything from us?” Sam asked, his brow furrowed. 

“Nothing besides your permanent residence here. We may have to pretend to have a normal slave-and-owner relationship in public, but not soon nor often,” said Castiel. 

“You’re the lesser of two evils,” said Sam quietly to himself, then closed his eyes as though we were thinking. He opened them again. “We can’t ever go home?”

“I doubt you’d want to. My brothers and sisters have reduced earth to a pile of ashes at this point.”

Sam’s expression became pained and Dean felt a jolt run through him. Earth, destroyed? It seemed impossible and yet he knew the power that the angels had, he knew what they were capable of. With no one to live there, Earth was certainly useless to them. 

“Wait, what?” Dean asked, horrified.

“Well, not completely destroyed. That was an exaggeration. What I mean is that all trace of life is gone. There’s not a single tree, creature, or any living thing around. It’s a toxic place to live because all of the smitings have left concentrated ethereal residue in the air that makes it impossible for the earth to sustain life.”

Dean felt himself going to be sick and swallowed hard. “So, just a hunk of rock in space, huh? That’s it?”

Castiel seemed to realize what he had said. 

He at least looked apologetic. “I’m sorry. I regret that I didn’t say that differently. I could have made it somewhat easier for you to hear.”

There was nothing anybody could say to make any aspect of the destruction of earth easier to bear. But simply because he didn’t know what else to say or do, Dean nodded numbly. In truth, he had barely heard.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice broke. “What about Charlie? And Kevin and Garth…?” He just sounded so upset and uncertain that Dean wanted to scream. Why couldn't things ever work out for them? Why couldn't things just make sense every once and a while?

Dean reeled himself back in as best as he could, inhaled shakily. “Cas, is there a way to find out who might have survived the massacre?”

“There are records I could check to see if they were sold or currently reside in slave market, but that’s about it.”

“Will you check?”

“What are your friends’ names?”

Sam seemed unable to speak at the time being so Dean did instead, giving Castiel the full names of their friends. He wondered what the odds were that all three of them were still alive. The pessimistic side of him that tended to win the arguments he had with himself said that this was unlikely. Dean decided to push the thoughts away. When in doubt, bring on the denial. 

“You two have been through a mass genocide and enslavement all in one day,” said Castiel gently but still firm, “I would like for you both to drink some water and then I’ll show you a place where you can lie down. Alright?”

Sam still didn’t say anything so Dean nodded. Suddenly he remembered the glass he had shattered on the floor. “Um, the cup—”

“I’ll clean it up.” Castiel retrieved a new glass of water. “Make sure Sam drinks at least a little. He seems a bit in shock.”

“Oh, right. Okay.” 

That helped a little. Dean was feeling powerless but helping Sam at least gave him something to do, something that would give him some sense of purpose or control even if it was just for a second.

He picked up the glass with a shaking hand. “Sammy, water.”

Sam ignored the water, turning tortured eyes toward his brother instead. “I don’t want to be here forever, Dean.”

“Hey, don’t start going crazy on me, man.” _I don’t wanna be here forever, either._ “Drink some water and then we can go pass out for a couple hours. Sound like a plan?”

Eventually, Sam was persuaded to take a few sips of water but that was it. Dean noticed that Castiel was watching so he rolled his eyes and picked up the second glass, taking a drink from that to appease the angel.

“Happy?” He asked, setting the glass back down on the counter.

“Ecstatic. Follow me upstairs, please.” 

Upstairs as more of the same. Everything was sparkling clean, modern, and in varying shades of black and white. The stairs led them to an open-spaced front room that overlooked the downstairs, but they didn’t linger there because Castiel directed them towards a room down the hall. 

It was a regular sized room with but two beds. Other then that, it was empty. Dean suddenly was hit with a wave of homesickness, remembering all those years ago when he used to have his own bed. Before the war, before the angels, before his home was destroyed and he was forced to sleep under dumpsters and trees. 

“You can have your own rooms later on if you’d like, but I have a feeling that for now you’d rather not be apart,” said Castiel. “Feel free to stay up here as long as you want. You can sleep if you wish.”

“Fine. Leave us alone, now, if you don’t mind,” said Dean roughly. 

Castiel didn’t argue. “I’m sorry about this, but I don’t know you enough yet to trust you won’t try to leave. I’ll be locking your door.”

“I said fine.”

The door closed, a lock slid into place. Sam almost crumpled to the floor. 

Dean caught him just in time, hurrying over to one of the beds. He drew the blankets back immediately and guided Sam down onto the mattress. Sam buried his face in his pillow; Dean realized he was trying not to cry. 

"What if they're dead?" He asked finally, his voice exhausted and small. 

Dean didn't know what to say to that. There was no right answer, no amount of reassurance he could give that wasn't a lie or hard to hear. 

"Then we'll remember them," he said finally, "Carry on their legacies by living our lives, you know? Like what dad used to say about mom. We can do it again."

"I don't want to do it again. I just want people to stop dying."

"I hear ya, Sammy, I hear ya." Dean swallowed. Suddenly he was feeling emotional and he hated it. "Here's an idea; take a siesta for a while, 'kay? Just pass out. I'll be right here the whole time to make sure we're okay."

Sam rubbed his eyes and let out a breath. "I'm sorry. I'm being a jerk, I know, this is hard for you too but I'm the one who's crying and can't get his shit together... Fuck, I-I'm sorry. I'm just so tired."

"No hard feelings, Sammy. Go to sleep. You'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"Yup. Holler if you need something."

Sam gave a bit of a quiet, bitter laugh, snuggling down into the blankets. "Okay. You sleep, too, though. Okay?"

"I will."

Soon, Sam dropped off to sleep. It didn't take long. The kid was fucking exhausted and so was Dean. However, despite what he had told his brother he didn't go to bed right away; he waited until Sam was for sure asleep and resting easy. Once he was sure Sam was okay he allowed himself to get into bed. 

The bed was unfamiliar and the sheets and pillow smelled like stupid flowery soap, but it was clean, warm and the blankets were soft. Dean hadn't slept in a real bed in years. He crawled beneath the covers and took a moment to settle himself in. Once his body hit the mattress, it wasn't long until he was just like Sam; his last waking thought to be that hopefully, Castiel would be able to find Charlie, Garth, and Kevin as he fell into a deep sleep with no intention of waking up anytime soon. 

If it weren't for Sam and Sam alone Dean would've wished he could stay dreaming forever.


	3. Castiel

Out of all the directions that Castiel's eternity could have gone, he never would have anticipated that this way would be it. 

The extent of living things within his ownership was a houseplant here, a garden flower there, the occasional orange or peach tree scattered somewhere in his garden. Humans were certainly not on that list, let alone two of them. So where did that leave things with Sam and Dean? Castiel didn't agree with slavery; he didn't expect them to work for him. Were the three of them simply eternal housemates, then?

Castiel closed his book with a huff of impatience. He had reread the same page multiple times by now and hadn't gotten any further into the chapter because his thoughts kept distracting him. He then closed his eyes, relaxing where he sat on his bench in his garden. If the thoughts were going to come then let them. Castiel acknowledged each and every one, trying to go over them individually, before releasing them into the wind that ruffled lightly through his feathers. 

_I own two human beings and they both hate me._

Okay, a negative conception. Castiel allowed himself to feel worried and then moved on. He tried again.

 _I have no idea how to care for them or how to make them happy._ Negative, again. He took a deep breath to keep frustration at bay. How could they be? Everything was taken from them and only in one day.

Sam and Dean were going to be a permanent fixture in Castiel's life. Since their souls had been claimed by heaven and they were now immortal, according to angel law, Castiel owned both of them forever lest he wish to sell them. It would certainly make his own eternity easier. However, he knew himself too well, and Castiel would never be able to bring himself to sell Sam and Dean. Even if the humans didn't see it this way, he knew he had saved them from a fate worse then death by deciding to take them.

Castiel opened his eyes again, staring up at the sky. He wished that it was real instead of fabricated by heaven. It _looked_ real. But then, so did the flowers, but if he were to smell one it would smell like nothing. The wind slowed a great deal and the clouds being lazily pushed across the sky came to a stop.

He pulled his thoughts away from the sky and instead directed them back to the situation at hand. He hadn't checked on Sam or Dean in a while, was that something he should do? It had been a few hours. As time went on and they adjusted to heaven they wouldn't need to eat, but during the transitional period they might be hungry. Should he offer them food? 

Castiel tucked his book under his arm and left his garden, going back into his nest. He decided to check on Sam and Dean just in case. He left the book on the couch and went upstairs. 

Just as he was about to unlock the door Castiel remembered how sensitive humans were to personal space and boundaries. He knew that Dean was going to try to send him away anyway, but still, knocking might at least help, so he did. There was no answer. So again, he rapped on the door gently with his knuckles. 

"Sam, Dean, I'm going to come in," he said, giving a verbal warning before inserting the key into the lock. 

Upon stepping into the room, Castiel knew right away that something was very, very wrong. 

The lights were off and Sam and Dean were both in bed, seemingly asleep, but that was completely normal. The issue that Castiel picked up on so quickly was that the air was hot, almost muggy, which should have been impossible. Everything was regulated in heaven and that included temperature. It shouldn't have been so warm. 

"Dean?" Castiel kept his voice somewhat quiet to avoid waking the human too abruptly. He had a feeling that Dean was a tad jumpier than the other. But when Dean didn't answer, he tried Sam instead. "Sam. Samuel, wake up."

Sam did not.

Something that Castiel had learned yesterday when trying to heal the humans was that they didn't care to be touched without verbal consent or at least a warning, so he was hesitant to get too close to them now, even though he just wanted to help. However, neither of them were responding when he spoke to them and Castiel had a feeling it wasn't because they were deep sleepers. Eventually, he got too worried, decided it didn't matter and knelt next to Sam's bed. 

He rested his hand lightly on the human's shoulder. "Sam," he said, shaking him gently. "Wake up."

The human stirred in his sleep, his eyebrows knitted together in the middle while a small frown formed on his face. He made a soft sound from the back of his throat, somewhere between a whine of protest and irritation. 

Castiel shook him again, still gentle but with a bit more urgency. “Sam.”

“Huh?” Genuine confusion was most prominent in his voice and Sam didn’t open his eyes. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. 

"What's wrong?"

The human’s eyes were glazed over and he opened them only halfway. It took him several long seconds to give any sign that he had heard, or even understood, what Castiel had said. 

Then Sam flinched, drawing back from Castiel as much as the bed would allow. His body was trembling. Castiel wasn't sure whether to attribute the trembling to the boy's fever or his fear, eventually settling for both. Sam was sweating and yet he shivered as though he were cold. 

"You need to tell me what's wrong so I can help you." Castiel only realized after he said the words that he had been too stern. He wasn't sure to working with 'kid-gloves' but the second time around, he hopefully sounded a tad less intimidating. "I'm going to put my hand on your forehead. Is that alright?"

Sam shook his head. "Don't touch me," he said, his voice raspy. He drew his knees into his chest and ducked his head. Curled up so small, he seemed hellbent on avoiding any contact. Castiel held out his hand to show that it was empty but Sam flinched and shook his head again. 

"I need to see if this is something I can heal. Wouldn't you like that? You wouldn't feel so sick. If this can be healed it will all be over immediately, but I'll only know if you let me touch you. Do you understand?" 

"Get Dean."

"Dean is sick, too."

Sam seemed to sink a little. "B-but I don't— I don't _want_ you. I want Dean."

"If Dean were capable of checking your fever I would have him do it, but he isn't. And I would try to find out the severity of this sickness with him, but if I try to put my hand anywhere near his face while he's sleeping, he may attempt to bite it off." Castiel explained, "Listen, I'm not going to bring you any harm. I want only to help."

Sam's eyes closed. Then, in a voice that was so quiet it could barely be heard, he asked, " 'M I sick?"

Castiel didn't even have to look at the glassy-eyed, trembling figure with flushed cheeks to give an immediate answer. "Yes, Sam. You're very sick. May I please place my hand on your forehead to determine the severity?"

There was a long pause, and after a while, Castiel thought dismally that Sam’s answer was no and he would have to resort to pinning the human down and finding out that way. It wouldn't end well. Then, just as he was about to give up, Sam lifted his head. 

"Okay," he said numbly. 

This added issue of whatever was happening to Sam and Dean expelled uncertainty into everything else Castiel had been dealing with today. How could both of them be sick? They had been fine a couple of hours ago. Additionally, there was no way to get sick in heaven. It was impossible. Impossible, unless—

Castiel almost swore.

Sam’s body jolted when Castiel pressed the back of his hand against Sam’s forehead. “Shh, I’m just checking your fever. Your body is having a hard time adjusting to heaven right now.” He moved his hand down a little, towards the human’s cheek. It was warm there, too. He tried to call upon his grace, but it had no effect as it flowed uselessly over the human's body. 

Due to his inexperience, Castiel had forgotten about the adjustment period in which human souls adapted to heaven. This often involved a complete reset of a human form for the soul to get used to heaven's ethereal effect. The condition was unnamed, since most angels didn't care for their human's wellbeing, and couldn't be cured with angel grace. 

Now, the concentrated effects of haven had rendered both Sam and Dean very ill, and Castiel had no idea how to care for them. 

"I can't be sick," protested Sam weakly, "I-I gotta get home."

“This _is_ your h—” _Kid-gloves._ Right. “Okay, you can go home,” said Castiel gently, knowing the boy was delirious, “But not now. When you get better we’ll talk about it.”

Sam shook his head rapidly. “Wanna go home _now_.”

“Shh,” he said for the second time, “I said we’ll talk about it, okay? Soon.” 

Hopefully, Sam wouldn’t remember this conversation when he was better. Earth was gone. After all, there wasn’t any home for him to go back to. Not for him or his brother.

Sam didn't seem quite sure about this but eventually decided he felt too sick to care. He pulled the blankets back over his body, turning his back.

Dean was more of the same. Upon inspection he had flushed cheeks and was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his body shivering even though he was buried underneath his blankets. Castiel decided not to wake him up. That was a disaster just waiting to happen. Instead, he took a step back, desperately trying to think up a resolution. He wasn't sure how long this adjustment period was supposed to take, therefore he was unsure how long Sam and Dean would be like this. 

"Cas?"

He was jolted out of his thoughts when he heard Sam say his name. 

"What is it?" Castiel asked him. 

"Feel like shit," mumbled Sam into his pillow.

"I know. I just don't know how to help you." Suddenly Castiel was struck with an idea. "Hang on, maybe there's somebody else who does. Go to sleep. I'll be back in a minute." Sure, Castiel's grace wouldn't work to help Sam or Dean, but he was just a regular angel. Something told him an archangel might be able to do better. 

Castiel went back downstairs and used angel networking to radio for his older brother Gabriel. 

*****

When Gabriel appeared in Castiel's living room it was in a very Gabriel-like fashion — he was dressed in a matte gold suit, dress shoes, and sat on Castiel's couch without being invited. He picked up one of the magazines before tossing it to the side. "Boring."

"I would appreciate it if you didn't wear your shoes on the rug."

Gabriel rolled his eyes and grinned. " 'Hello, Gabriel.' Oh, thank you for the hello, Castiel! Hello to you, too."

Castiel crossed his arms over his chest. "My apologies. Greetings, brother. Now may I explain why I've asked you to come here?"

"You didn't just want to see me?" He pretended to be disappointed.

"Don't take it personally. I rarely want to see anyone."

"True. What did you want?" Gabriel asked. A sly expression became clear on his features. "Does it have something to do with the two humans I hear you've picked up?"

Castiel blinked. He knew word would travel fast, but certainly not _that_ fast. He almost became distracted as hundreds of questions erupted in his mind: Who knows about it? Who told? What are the others saying? Then he stopped, reminding himself that Gabriel was here to possibly help, not for all sorts of gossip and debates Castiel would hear about anyway the second he left his nest.

"Yes, it does, actually," he said matter-of-factly, pushing the thoughts aside for a moment believe he would consider them later. "Sam and Dean. They're both very sick and I can't heal them. I was wondering if you could."

"Sam and Dean?" Gabriel wrinkled his nose. "Those are the names you picked?"

"No. Those are their real names and what they'd like to be called. Now please, while I'd love to go over every detail of how wretched this day has been, can it wait until after you check on them?"

Gabriel beamed. "I love venting. Okay, okay, Sam and whoever first, then vent. Onward!"

Castiel rolled his eyes. He would never understand Gabriel's silly human references — what in heaven did ventilation have to do with any of this? In the end, it wasn't important and he quickly showed his brother to the humans' room. He knocked quietly before entering. 

Things had apparently gotten worse. The air was even more hot, to the point where it was thick and smothering. Dean had kicked all of his blankets off to the floor, covered in sweat and his face flushed a deep red. Sam was the opposite and nothing but a bundle of shivering blankets. Both of them appeared awake, sort of. Their eyes were half open but glassy and staring at nothing. 

"Yuck," said Gabriel. "Are they supposed to be like that?"

"It happens when their souls and heavenly bodies try to adjust to heaven," explained Castiel, "It can't be healed. At least, not by an angel of my status, but you're an archangel. Will you please try?"

His brother didn't seem to understand, blinking slowly and multiple times before asking, "But why do you care? It should go away on its own eventually."

"Because I would like some semblance of trust between us," Castiel retorted, on the verge of snapping. "You know how I am with slaves. If I can help them, I will. Will you please just do me a favor and see if you're capable of fixing them?"

"Cas...?" Dean's voice interrupted the discussion and Gabriel turned quickly, looking to where Dean was lying in bed. There was an expression of interest on the archangel's face as Dean asked somewhat roughly, "Who's that?"

"My brother. He—"

Suddenly Dean bolted upright into a sitting position, his head turning back and forth as he frantically searched the room. "Fuck, where's Sam? Did you give him to that guy? Cas, what'd you d—"

Castiel hurried over, pushing Dean back down against the mattress gently. Though the human struggled it was easy; angels always had the upper hand and Dean was sick besides. "Sam's right over there. He's fine. Lie down, Dean. Be calm."

"Get your hands off me, you sick fuck!" In his fevered delirium, Dean didn't seem to care what he was being told. Then, chest heaving and out of breath, he had to stop, giving himself time to cough. He gasped for air. His eyes were just as glassy as Sam’s.

Castiel tried to stay calm. “I wasn’t doing anything to you. I’m trying to help.” 

“Don’t need your help. Did… Did you drug me? Why do I feel so... What’s going on?”

“You’re sick. So is Sam. He’s right next to you, by the way, no need for trying to break my jaw.” Castiel knew he shouldn’t be bitter because it wasn’t Dean’s fault he was so ill, but a hint of irritation crept into his voice.

Dean was very pale and he looked like he might vomit, but he writhed against Castiel’s grip with as much strength as he could muster. “Let go of me!”

“Are you going to try and hit me?”

“Let go!”

“Dean, I don’t _want_ to hurt you. I can’t help you if you keep fighting me. Lie still.”

The whole time, Gabriel stayed quiet and watched it all happen. He seemed half interested and half confused, but he didn't try to intervene or interrupt in any way, which was strange. Normally Gabriel always had an opinion or a comment to throw in.

Dean was entering some sort of panicked survival mode and Castiel was honestly beginning to panic as well. He didn’t want to cross Dean’s boundaries, harm him or anything of the sort, but he also couldn’t let Dean hit him again. At this point, he didn’t know what to do and was probably making things worse. 

Slowly, the hunter seemed to realize that he wasn’t strong enough to fight anyone and collapsed back against his pillow. Castiel could feel him shaking violently, yet he didn't loosen his grip. He knew better than to underestimate Dean even while sick. 

“Cas, please. I won’t swing, ‘kay? I-I won’t, but you gotta let go. C'mon, man, let me go.”

“Do you promise?”

“ _Yes_.”

Castiel slowly loosened his grip on Dean’s wrists. The human didn’t try to fight, just squeezed his eyes shut, trying to regain control of his breath while he shivered. Castiel realized that Dean was almost hysteric as a result from his weakened, feverish state combined with such an intense encounter. 

“You and Sam are both sick right now. I know that you’ve been through a lot and you feel terrible, but I promise, this will pass. You’ve got to let me help you.”

Dean was already shaking his head. “We don’t want your help.”

“Maybe you don’t,” said Castiel, “But you haven’t asked that of Sam and I honestly don’t think he’s capable of giving you an answer. Whether you want my help or not you need it and so does your brother. That's why my brother is here. Gabriel is an archangel and I think he may be able to heal both of you. The effect may not be immediate, but you would feel better in two or three days rather than a week or more.”

The hunter closed his eyes for a good long while. His cheeks were flushed red as he struggled to contain his thoughts into something tangible he could respond to Castiel with. Finally, he said, “How do we know you’re actually gonna help us?”

“I’ve done nothing to make you distrust me so far, have I?”

Again, there was a long pause as Dean hesitated. Castiel didn’t blame him. The only experience that Dean had with angels with darkened and full of pain, so having one of them trying to help probably went against every method of self-preservation the human had. Castiel knew he would have to be patient. 

Finally, weakly—

"Just... Tell your brother not to get too up close and personal, 'kay?"

That was as close as they would get to a 'yes' from Dean. Castiel nodded to Gabriel. The archangel responded by pursing his lips, looking Dean over for a long while before even approaching the bed. When he finally did he crouched a little bit, looking into Dean's feverish green eyes. 

"Hm, not gonna lie, but you look nasty," said Gabriel lightly. "But let's see if there's anything I can do for ya, since my little brother asked so nicely."

Castiel tsked under his breath. His brother placed his hand on Dean's forehead. Dean went rigid, his whole body getting tense as he tried to squirm away from the touch. Gabriel didn't let that happen and stopped the human by putting his other hand firmly on Dean's shoulder, effectively keeping him in place. Dean closed his eyes tightly. He seemed to have an aversion to being touched. 

"Interesting," murmured Gabriel under his breath.

"What?" Asked Castiel quickly. 

"I think I can heal it sorta-kinda-not really."

"What does that mean?"

"It's pretty much what you said. My grace can do it, but slowly over the course of a couple days. And I'll need to re-heal both of them every day until they're fine again." Gabriel explained all of this quickly and Dean frowned, seeming to dislike the idea. He tried to move away from Gabriel again but the archangel tightened his grip. "Stay put, Dean-O. We aren't done yet."

Castiel watched as Gabriel began to pour his grace over the human's body, the archangel's eyes closed in concentration.

Dean began to shiver and Castiel was reminded of how many humans reported angel grace to feel 'cold,' which probably wasn't enjoyable whilst dealing with a high fever. Dean's teeth started chattering. 

Gabriel withdrew, shrugging his shoulders. "That should help, but it won't kick in until later tonight and I'll have to do it again tomorrow. Wasn't so bad was it, Dean-O?"

Still shuddering, Dean pulled the blankets all the way up to his shoulders. "L-leave me alone."

Castiel pulled them back down a little. "Dean," he said reproachfully, "If you have a fever you shouldn't bury yourself in blankets. I know you feel cold but you're going to bake yourself."

The human scrambled to get the blankets back, his hands trying to pull them closer to his body, but Castiel gently took him by the wrists and made him lie back down. Dean whined in protest. "Cas, I _need_ them, give them back!"

"Gabriel said that you should feel better later. You can have all the blankets you want then." When Dean didn't stop struggling, Castiel said perhaps a bit harshly, "Dean, you're acting like a child. Just try to go back to sleep or you're going to wake your brother."

"Too late," said Gabriel, nudging him with his wing. "Sasquatch is up."

Castiel let out a sigh. Sure enough, Sam was sitting up in bed, his face pale except for red cheeks. His hair was messy and stuck to his forehead which gleamed with sweat. He saw the two angels standing next to his brother, one of which was holding Dean down, and became frightened. Castiel realized how this looked and quickly released Dean.

Sam looked even paler than before.

Castiel noticed that there had been a change and that although things were already bad, something here was worse. Sam closed his eyes tight and his shoulders jerked. He clapped his hands over his mouth, swallowing hard.

"Crap," muttered Gabriel.

At the same time, Dean cried out exhaustedly, "Cas, he's gonna—"

Castiel had no idea what they were talking about and stared, confused. Gabriel's wings flapped and he disappeared, then reappeared holding one of Castiel's bowls from the kitchen. Liquid started leaking from in between Sam's fingers and Gabriel thrust the bowl under his chin only just in time for Sam to vomit into it. Castiel felt his eyes go wide. What in heaven? Did all humans do this?

"What is he _doing?_ " Castiel cried, shocked.

"It's a human thing. Sometimes when they get sick their bodies try to expel whatever it is that's making them ill," explained Gabe, patting an exhausted Sam on the back as the human gripped the bowl with sweaty fingers. "It ain't pretty."

"O-off of me," Sam coughed, spitting into the bowl.

Castiel heard a sound from behind him and saw that Dean was trying to get out of bed. He stood, then stumbled, one of his knees buckling. The human had to brace himself on the edge of the bed to keep from falling. Quickly, Castiel hurried over, trusting that Gabriel had the Sam situation under control. "Dean," he said firmly, "Get back into bed. There's nothing you can do."

"I can help, I can be with him."

"Back into bed, now, please." Castiel put his hand on Dean's shoulder and tried to guide him back to the mattress.

Dean jerked away but the sudden movement mixed with his fever made him stumble again. This time Castiel caught him. His breath got stuck in his chest when Dean slumped against him, his head resting on Castiel's chest. He just felt so small and light, like a feather. Even though Dean was a large man by human standards he just felt so tiny compared to Castiel. He could feel the fever, too, hot and damp.

"I need to help him," muttered Dean, trying to push himself away. Across the room, Sam retched.

"You got it, 'squatch," said Gabriel cheerfully, "Get it all out."

Castiel ignored his brother. As mentioned above, Dean was tiny by angel standards. It was all too easy to pick him up and carry him back to bed. Dean gnashed his teeth, kicking out with his legs while squirming and bucking, anything to dislodge the angel's grip, but as a general rule, a human was far too weak to be a match for an angel. Castiel brought him back over to his bed.

"Put me down, I need to get to my brother—"

"You need to lie down and let us handle it."

" _No._ Just because you haven't hurt us yet doesn't mean we trust you."

Castiel didn't want to make Dean resent him but he wasn't sure what else to do at this point. "If you don't do as I say, I'll put you and Sam in separate rooms. Do you understand?"

Dean stared like he hadn't expected Castiel to actually follow through with what he was saying but at the same time wasn't willing to risk it. He dropped his gaze. Sam gagged, a miserable, sickly wet sound, and Dean flinched as though it actually brought him pain.

"I just want to help him," he said in a hushed voice.

"You will be by letting us take care of it. Stay here."

Dean flinched again as more sounds came from the other side of the room. However, it looked like he was going to obey, however reluctantly. Castiel went and stood by Gabriel, looking over his brother's shoulder and wrinkling his nose when he saw the contents of the bowl that Sam had vomited into.

"What is that?" He asked.

"Oh, just stomach acid," said Gabriel much too brightly.

Sam appeared to have made it through the worst of it. He shuddered, still leaning over the bowl. He spat out a mouthful of saliva and acid into it, still clinging to the bowl like he didn't exactly trust that it was over. 

"Get him water," said Dean in a small voice.

"Water?" Castiel blinked. "Sam, would that help?"

Sam winced and nodded. His eyes were watering, probably from his burning throat. Castiel quickly flew to the kitchen and returned with a glass which Sam accepted with a shaking, sweaty hand. 

"Rinse and spit, dude," said Dean from across the room, "Rinse and spit."

"I know," muttered Sam. He repeated this action a few times, spitting into the bowl. He sounded tired and scared."Fucking nasty."

"Are you done?" Asked Castiel uncertainly.

Sam seemed to have realized that two angels just saw him vomit into a bowl and his already flushed cheeks turned a deeper red. "For now." He took note of Gabriel, suddenly aware of how close the archangel was, and moved back.

"Who's that?"

"Wow, when you're not sick I bet you're a real cutie," mused Gabriel, standing up. Sam was caught off guard and didn't quite know what to make of this.

"This is my brother Gabriel. He's here to help you and Dean," Castiel explained gently. 

"Help, my ass," coughed Dean.

Sam didn't know what to think, but this comment from Dean apparently had a lot of influence on his thoughts because his fevered gaze became wary, almost suspicious. His shoulders hunched up to his ears and he inched away from Gabriel as though he were a predator and Sam was the prey. "What did you do to Dean?"

"Hey, listen, Sasquatch, I'm not trying to hurt you. Cassie here is asking me to help. That's all. I didn't hurt your brother, he just doesn't like angel grace, I guess," said Gabriel with a roll of his eyes. "Be a good little human and let me heal you."

Castiel made a sharp, warning sound in the back of his throat but it was too late. Gabriel had said what he said and Sam didn't like the sound of that at all. The human had his back pressed against the wall, as far away as he could be, his shivering form seeming ready to leap out of bed if things took a wrong turn. 

"L-look, keep your hands off me, okay? I don't know you. Either of you. I-I just wanna sweat this one off." Sam hesitated, then added, "Leave us alone."

"You tell 'em, Sammy," said Dean, his voice disoriented and slightly slurred.

Castiel knew that Dean was their only shot at getting Sam to comply. Earlier, it had taken over twenty minutes just to get Sam to allow Castiel to touch him, and that was before Gabriel — a strange angel who he didn't know — had been added to the mix. Castiel quickly turned to the other human. 

"Dean, I need you to tell him that it's alright," he said firmly, "No matter how you feel about me or Gabriel. If you care about Sam you'll want him to get better."

"Dean doesn't tell me what to do," Sam protested. 

_Maybe not directly,_ thought Castiel to himself. 

Dean frowned, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "No, hang on, man." Dean shot a dark look at the two angels before propping himself up on one elbow, looking at his brother. "Angels are assholes but Cas and whoever this guy is didn't hurt me. It probably looked that way when you woke up, but—" He paused to cough, a loud tearing sound that ripped its way out of his chest. "Look, it ain't gonna kill ya. It... Might even help."

Sam became quiet and sobered.

"Thank you," said Castiel quietly. 

"Shut the hell up and be careful when you go over there," mumbled Dean, "He hates angels. Don't freak him out."

"Dean, I—" Sam started to say when Gabriel lifted his hand. 

"You're okay, Sammy."

Castiel didn't want Sam to feel cornered or caged so he moved to the foot of the bed, a place where he could help if need be but wasn't too intrusive on the human's personal space. The color drained from Sam's face. His eyes kept flickering back and forth from Dean to Gabriel's outstretched hand, his body in a hunched defensive position. Despite seeming like he was going to comply he instinctually ducked his head when Gabriel went to touch his temple. 

"Sam," said Castiel in a soft, reproachful tone. 

Sam was shaking but Castiel knew he was trying to be brave. Sam lifted his head, just barely enough. He was shivering and he flinched when Gabriel's fingertips came in contact with his temple. When the angel grace started to take effect, he tried to jerk away. 

"Hold still," mumbled Gabriel, focused deeply on his task. "I'm trying to restore you to your former beauty."

"Get off me," whispered Sam. 

"Gabriel, hurry," said Castiel in a hushed tone, sensing that Sam was beginning to panic. Gabriel didn't reply. 

Finally, after what seemed to be ages, Gabriel withdrew. Sam wrenched away immediately. He was shivering, his teeth chattering.

Gabriel stood up, seeming to know automatically that he shouldn't say anything to Sam while he was like this because he turned directly to Castiel. "What's the plan, brother?"

"I suppose... Sam, I'll rinse out your bowl in case you need it again, and then—" Castiel stopped, unsure of what the best course of action should be. He didn't know how to care for sick humans. Especially now that he knew that they spontaneously expelled explosive amounts of digestive liquid when they were ill. He gave himself a moment to think, then finished— "I'll come back to check on you later tonight and tomorrow Gabriel will try to heal you again. You should feel better after today."

"Guess I get the couch, then," grinned Gabriel.

"Don't let the door hit ya on the way out," grumbled Dean.

Castiel looked on at the two brothers, both sweaty and exhausted and sick. He wished he knew what to say to them to prove that their lives here weren't going to be so bad. That they could be happy, if only they would try, and what they were feeling now wouldn't last forever. 

However, he knew there was nothing he could say right now to put either of them at ease. So he nodded. "Yes," he repeated, "I'll check on you later tonight."

Sam curled up into a ball and faced the wall, ignoring the two angels. When he and Gabriel left, Castiel could hear Sam saying something followed by a muffled reply from Dean, but he didn't catch what it was. He decided it didn't matter and Gabriel followed him downstairs. 

As soon as they were in the living room, Castiel collapsed on the couch, burying his face in his hands as he allowed himself a two-second period of desperate panic. When he collected himself and lifted his face, there was Gabriel, bouncing a little on the couch cushion and looking way too excited. 

"Gossip time!" Gabriel said, beaming. " _Spill._ "

 _Oh, no..._ thought Castiel. In the end, he gave in and told Gabriel the whole story, including how he must now accept the job offer of leading heaven in case something should ever happen to Michael. The whole time he was speaking, however, all Castiel could think about was the two brothers upstairs, and how he wished he had never gone into that slave market in the first place. As much as he felt bad for Sam and Dean, maybe if Castiel had left them there, he wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. He found himself wishing that he had never decided to help.

And then Castiel was struck by so much guilt he felt like he had just been smitten on the spot. That guilt, in and of itself, was enough to tell Castiel that he was completely hopeless, and lost to those two humans forever.

There was only one thought in his mind as Castiel was struck with this realization, and it involved taking his father's name in vain:

_Goddammit._


	4. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welp, things get better and then they don't :D

The next morning Castiel had multiple things on his already crowded mind that brought about sensations of nervousness and even anxiety. The first was that Michael was demanding that Castiel come into 'work' immediately. The second, and almost infinitely worse, was that the only way to accomplish this was to leave Sam and Dean home alone with Gabriel of all angels to care for them. 

"Remember, they're only humans so you have to be careful with them. They don't like being touched either, it's a silly human thing—" Castiel was ranting but Gabriel hardly seeming to be listening, pushing his younger brother towards the door— "Make sure they're drinking water, especially Sam since he's vomiting. Let me know if Dean starts showing symptoms of nausea, too. If anything changes, actually. Send for me over angel radio and I'll come back immediately—"

Gabriel practically threw Castiel's trenchcoat at him. "Yeah, yeah, I will. Now get outta here. I want to play nurse with your human pets."

"They aren't pets, Gabriel."

"I'm teasing. Now get outta here or Michael will be breathing down my neck trying to figure out where you are." 

Gabriel smiled brightly, giving a little wave. Castiel gave his brother a long and lasting look of warning.

"Fine."

He flapped his wings. The air around him blew through his feathers, a pleasant cool sensation, and then he had arrived at Michael's building. 

He was in the reception of Michael's nest. Yes, Michael's nest was an entire building. It was ridiculous and what Dean would call a 'stupid flex.' Castiel ignored the receptionist, walking right by her even as she tried to get his attention and stop him. He hated everything about this place and therefore he hated the receptionist, too. Most of all, he detested Michael, who was cruel, cocky, and felt the need to show off even as he tormented the innocent. 

Michael lived in the very top of the building, of course, but he worked and ran heaven from a more fortified office floor. This is where Castiel went. He stopped at the door, inhaled deeply, and then rapped lightly on the surface with his knuckles. The door swung open. 

Castiel was greeted by the bright white light that streamed in through the large windows, the shadow of Michael's large desk being the only thing blocking it. On the other side of the room was a large sofa and multiple squashy armchairs. Michael had a different taste in decor that Castiel did; he preferred elegance, dark, rich colors with touches of gold here and there. On the wall hung a shield of this glinting gold he had mentioned that he immediately recognized as one of the three hundred golden shields made by King Solomon. 

Footsteps

"That one's new," said Michael, his voice drawing Castiel out of his thoughts abruptly. "Did you know that three pounds of gold went into each one of these? Not that great of an amount, but still, they are quite pleasing to look at. This is the only one left. I pulled it from the remains left of The House of the Forest of Lebanon myself."

"Interesting."

"What do you think of it?"

"I find it... Blinding."

Michael studied him for a moment. Then a large smile erupted on his face as he made a sweeping gesture with his arms at the office around him. "Welcome to your first day of work, brother."

This was the part where Castiel was supposed to smile. So he did, forcing the corners of his lips to twitch upward as he feigned some sense of satisfaction. "I must admit I'm still somewhat reluctant."

"I know, I know, you've never enjoyed the spotlight. What was it dad used to say about you?"

"He called me the quiet one." Castiel tried to keep his voice light even though he could feel heat creeping up his neck, his pride trying to recover from the reminder that was never quite enough to impress their father, God. 

"Ah, yes, I remember now. Don't let it bother you, brother. I've always seen your potential; one day, should anything happen to me, you'll be the ruler of heaven. You'll be promoted to Seraph, just like Gabriel and Raphael and I." Michael, of course, was only saying this because he wanted to keep an eye on Castiel. Keep your enemies close and all that. The archangel would never give up being the ruler of heaven and had no intention of stepping down from the ivory throne, not unless God returned. "Wouldn't you like that?"

 _Not particularly,_ he thought, but what he said was, "I would be honored, brother."

"Come, sit. We have much to discuss."

Castiel sat across from Michael at the desk, his mind whirling. Normally he would allow himself to notice each concerning thought, accept it, and let it pass by, but there was no time for meditation here. He had to shove the thoughts aside and focus on what Michael was saying, even if the sound of his older brother's voice repulsed him. 

Castiel was a high ranking angel now, Michael was telling him, and he had responsibilities and duties and appearances to uphold. Not only that but Castiel was to play a part in the governing of heaven. He had decisions to make, orders to give. And though everything would have to be approved by Michael first, it would be up to the next ruler of heaven to make these resolves. 

"And to start you off," continued Michael, "To... Test the water, as the human flies would say, I think it best that you begin in a smaller department that is easier to manage while at the same time provides a learning experience for you. Do you agree?"

An unsettled feeling boiled in Castiel's gut. "I can see how that would be a wise choice," he said, forcing himself not to speak through gritted teeth. 

"Do you have any preference as to where you would like to start?"

Castiel was caught off guard. Angels, especially archangels and even more so Michael, liked total control. Michael asking Castiel what he would prefer to do seemed strange. His mind whirled, trying to come up with an answer, but his mind seemed stuck. 

"I... no preferences for now." Castiel tried to not to stumble through the words. "Wherever you should have me placed is fine with me."

Michael beamed, like this was exactly what he wanted to hear. He smiled that smile, the one that Castiel associated with a hungry shark, greedy and eager. "Wonderful, brother, _wonderful_. Then, if you don't mind, I think I'd like you to be the managing director for heaven's slave trade. It's a simple business that would serve as a great starting point for your career."

"Oh." Castiel's voice sounded far away. For some reason, his chest felt tight, and he found his hands curling into fists under the desk where Michael couldn't see, a certain tenseness taking over his limbs. "I see."

Michael noticed his brother's obvious discomfort. "Oh, don't tell me you've gone back to sympathizing with the flies, brother. You just bought two of them. You mustn't condemn others for buying slaves when you're surely working yours just as hard."

Suddenly the shark smile was back. 

Castiel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

"Unless," said Michael, his voice low, "You _aren't_ working them at all."

"I know not of what you speak."

"Did you perhaps believe you were saving the brothers Winchester, Castiel?"

Michael was backing Castiel up into a corner. If he didn't say the right thing, Michael would have won, and he would have something to hold over Castiel's head. Because of this the angel frantically tried to come up with a counter-argument. He couldn't let his older brother win or else he was in serious trouble with heaven.

"Of course not," said Castiel hotly. "I have no concerns at all when it comes to the... To the flies. Whatsoever. If you would like me to be the director of your slave trade then I will without any hesitation."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Then it's settled. You're now the managing director of heaven's slave trade, but only because you demanded it so fiercely. I like angels who are driven and know what they want. Good for you, brother."

 _Demanded it? I didn't demand this, not anything—_ Then Castiel stopped, feeling as though he had been punched in the throat. He had just allowed Michael to manipulate him into defending himself, up to the point where he had actually agreed with what the archangel was saying. In trying to refuse to let Michael win, Castiel had lost. 

And Michael knew it.

"I— Thank you, Michael," said Castiel stiffly.

"You have your own motivation to thank, not me," replied Michael smoothly. This was a perfect metaphor for what the humans called 'salt in the wound.' Castiel felt his face grow hot but before he could reply, the archangel continued, "I'm not going to put you to work just yet. That will happen soon but for now, I think we can begin with just one executive order on your part. I've been planning this for a while but I'd like you to be the one to execute it."

Still recovering from Michael's low blow, Castiel was hardly paying attention, wondering how on earth this had happened and of all angels in heaven why did this have to happen to him? Surely this was punishment for his sins. God had to have been waiting to inflict retribution unto Castiel for being a failure of a son and he had finally decided to do it now. That had to be it. It had to be. It was much easier to believe that than to accept that Castiel's own foolishness had landed him here—

"Brother."

"What?"

"Were you listening?"

 _Dammit._ "Forgive me. I fear I may be feeling a bit overwhelmed at the moment." He tried to calm the questions and panicking thoughts raging in his mind. "Please repeat yourself, if you would be so kind."

Michael frowned. "I was saying that I have an order I want you to execute for me. Did you hear me this time or do I need to repeat myself again?"

"No, I understand. Once more, my apologies. I hear what you ask of me," said Castiel, trying to pull Michael back into a good mood. "What order?"

Still unimpressed, Michael answered, "I believe we would have a large increase in profit if slaves were required to go through... What's the word? Training, of sorts, for the jobs they've been given. We've been having difficulties getting the flies to understand what they're supposed to do. With pleasurers and breeders, it's easy enough; they break easily and all you really have to do is restrain them. But it's more difficult with laborers and soldiers and expendables."

It was disgusting. Appalling. Castiel dug his nails into the palms of his hands so hard that it hurt. 

"I can see how it would be beneficial for them to know what they're supposed to do," he said, fighting to keep the anger from his voice, "But I fail to understand how it would increase profit."

"A fully capable, highly trained slave would sell for far more than the current high. And private sales, such as selling a slave from one angel to another rather than from the market, would bring in a much more extensive price. The market would explode."

"Demand would be higher, and Earth is gone so you will be unable harvest any more humans."

"That's what breeders are for."

That was Castiel's only argument that could possibly make even the slightest bit of sense, and Michael had crushed it in one swift move. Any more debate and he would just be uselessly arguing. 

"I'll write up the documents, then," he said, his voice sounding tight. "I'll send them to you to be approved shortly."

"Perfect. This isn't a light subject, so take your time. We'll need to revisit the documents frequently before the order is released," warned Michael. "Also, there is one more thing I must ask of you."

 _What more could you_ possibly _want_? Castiel was already so exhausted with what was being asked of him and he was beginning to fret about Sam and Dean being left alone for so long, especially with someone as eccentric as Gabriel. Still, he couldn't let Michael know this, so he raised his eyebrows as though he were actually interested. 

"What is it?" He asked.

"If we want this to work, we need our brothers and sisters to buy what we're selling," the archangel lazily picked up a pen on his desk, twirling it around absent-mindedly with his fingers. "No one is going to eat at a restaurant where the chef won't taste his own food. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Castiel hesitated. "I'm confused by the metaphor you're using."

Michael sighed. "I've been spending too much time with Gabriel; I forget how literal the rest of you are. What I mean is that we need to enter a few of our own slaves into the program to show we actually trust what we've chosen to invest in. The same goes for every new slave we buy from now on. _Now_ do you understand?"

The angel allowed himself zero-point-six seconds to have a mental meltdown before nodding in fake agreement. "Of course. It makes complete sense."

"Excellent! I'm glad you see it that way," grinned Michael. "Thank you for taking the time to discuss with me, Castiel. I suppose I'll see you your next workday when you're ready with the first draft of the executive order?"

Castiel was being dismissed. Not that he had any complaints. He bowed his head respectfully before saying, "Thank you for the chance to prove myself." The lie tasted like poison on his tongue, its foulness coating his mouth.

"Any day."

Castiel left the room in a hurry, stopping only to make sure the door didn't slam on the way out. He longed to be back in the comfort of his nest, alone in his garden, with the flowers and the bees and the peace he used to know before his life had changed so abruptly. He quickened his pace.

Just then, as he was about to walk back into reception and leave, a sign caught his eye: **File Room**.

He looked over his shoulder.

There was no one around. He double-checked to make sure no one would see, and silently went inside. 

Castiel searched until he found the shelves cataloged Enochian word meaning slave. From there, he began to thumb through file after file, keeping in mind the names that Sam and Dean had given him. _Charlie Bradbury._ There was no record of her. _Garth Fitzgerald._ No record of him, either. If there were no records of their capture then it meant they had to have died in the purge of the earth. 

Castiel searched for the last name, that of the young Kevin Tran. He was prepared to have to go back to his nest and tell Sam and Dean that all of their friends had died, along with the awful news Michael had given, when suddenly he stopped at the letter 'K.' Was this it? He grabbed the file and opened it. 

_**Kadriel** _  
**Pleasurer**  
**Property of Archangel Raphael**  
**Previously titled Tran, Kevin**

So the boy was still alive. Better off dead, but alive. At least he had some semblance of good news to give Sam and Dean; 'Alright, I have to give you to the cruelest angels around to be trained and beaten into submission for an extended period of time, but at least your friend is being raped instead of dead!' Somehow, he had a feeling that that wouldn't be an easy conversation to have.

Still, Kevin was live. At least it was something. Heart a bit lighter but still far too heavy, Castiel flew home before someone caught him in the file room.

*****

His nest was quiet.

Gabriel was curled up on the couch. He had changed out of the jacket of his gold suit, his tie askew. He had kicked off his shoes. He wasn't sleeping; angels didn't need to sleep, but he was definitely resting. His eyes opened when he heard Castiel walk over. 

"What are you doing?" Castiel asked, confused. "You're a mess."

"I'm never a mess," yawned Gabriel, "Just... Fashionably distressed."

"I see. Why?"

"Your humans." The archangel sounded beat. "I could never get them to sleep at the same time. One of them would pass out and then the other would start puking. Then they would switch. It was like they were tag-teaming. Ganging up on me. Dean started throwing up, got puke on my jacket. That jacket cost more than _he_ did. Sam's been having night terrors and he fell out of bed, damn near broke his neck—"

"I told you to call me if anything happened! How are they now?" Castiel shrugged out of his coat and was already hurrying towards the stairs.

"Castiel, if you wake up either of them _so help me God_ I will send you to the Empty!" Cried Gabriel, stopping him. "Are you insane? I just got them to sleep!"

Castiel froze. "You did? How?"

"I think they were just exhausted. They clocked out after I healed them."

That was a relief. After everything that had happened today, Castiel didn't know what he would do if he had to go back upstairs and deal with another mess. He took off his shoes, placing them by the door before going to his kitchen cabinet and retrieving a bottle of ambrosia liquor. Gabriel raised his eyebrows, surprised but not going to complain about the angel equivalent of alcohol. Especially not if it was free. 

"Never thought you were one for stress-drinking," commented Gabriel.

"It's a special occasion."

Castiel poured him and Gabriel a glass each. Gabriel pouted when he saw the admittedly small amount in his glass, but he didn't say anything, just downed it in one gulp. 

"So," asked Gabriel, "How did it go?"

Castiel closed his eyes. "Michael's a heartless bastard."

"Yes, well... Not all the time," he said somewhat gently, even though Gabriel knew just as well as Castiel did that Michael was cruel. 

After the loss of Lucifer, Gabriel had never been the same, never quite recovered from grieving over his brother. The first four were quadruplets, created on The First Day. They were as close as any angels were capable of being, but Lucifer and Gabriel always knew the other best. When Lucifer fell Gabriel found condolences in his other two brothers. He was always torn between acknowledging Raphael and Michael's faults, or being loyal to them.

"He's making me enforce a training program for the enslaved," murmured Castiel, bringing his glass to his lips. The ambrosia was thick and sweet as it went down his throat.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Yes! It isn't going to be a learning environment, Gabriel. It's going to be a place where humans a broken down into mindless, blank shells containing a shattered soul that knows only to obey. It's cruel," snapped Castiel.

The archangel held up his hands in a defensive gesture, "Whoa, there. I get it, man, it's not a good thing. But after Sam and Dean get through it they'll never have to do it again."

"I don't want them to have to do it at all."

Gabriel frowned. "Cassie, man... You're gonna hate me for this, but maybe you shouldn't care so much." When Castiel began to interrupt, Gabriel talked over him, adding, "I know just as much as you do that this is wrong. This isn't what God intended us to do. But the others don't care, and if I _do_ , then it's just gonna make me sad and tired all the time. So I just keep my distance from the humans entirely, you know? What I'm saying is—"

"Sweep it under the rug. Ignore the problem so I don't pull out my own feathers," said Castiel darkly. "Yes, that will fix everything, as long as I don't have to deal with a _fraction_ of the pain that they do."

There was a long silence. Gabriel was the one who broke it.

"I shouldn't have said anything."

"Agreed."

Again, there was a silence. 

"I'm sorry, Castiel."

Suddenly, there was a thud from upstairs that sounded terribly similar to the noise of a body hitting the floor. Castiel and Gabriel stopped, staring at each other. Then both of them were running towards the stairs. 

The two glasses were left forgotten on the countertop.


	5. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what I call a 'transitional chapter.' It's not a full-on move to the next step, but it does progress the story and serves as the transition from what happened in the last chapter to what will happen in the next. The very end has important stuff in it. Even though the next chapter isn't up yet, later, when it is, I suppose you *could* skip this to move on to the next part of the story. You might miss a few things but not too much as long as you read the end. 
> 
> Just letting you know :3
> 
> Oh, yeah, in the middle-towards-the-end we get to see a little bit of Winchester Brothers Banter™ 
> 
> Also sorry for any typos I'll be returning to check up on them. Thank you for all the lovely comments so far! Love you guysssss

Sam forget that his bowl was on the floor. 

He woke up to the sensation of his throat closing and then felt something rising up inside him. He tried to hold it back but there was no stopping it; he had to throw up again. Sam felt around the mattress for his recently washed out bowl but he couldn't feel it, and couldn't see it anywhere through the darkness of the room. He estimated that he had about a fifteen-second window of time between now and the impending puke session. 

Sam sat bolt upright, a hand clamped over his mouth. _Oh God, oh God, oh God — I have to throw up in the bowl I can't get puke anywhere else or else Cas will have to clean it up and I can't deal with that right now I can't I can't I can't I—_ He tried to get up and hit the lights, if only to see where the bowl was so he could lunge for it, but when he tried to set his foot on the floor it caught on something. Sam cashed onto the ground. 

_Ow..._

"Sammy?" Dean's voice sounded strange, sluggish, and far away. "Where...?"

It was getting difficult to breath and Sam tasted blood in his mouth. It was coming from his nose. "Here, Dean. I-I just—"

The nausea came back stronger and Sam had no choice but to try to vomit into his hands. 

He was a sorry sight indeed. Things were made worse when Castiel flung open the door like he expected someone to be seriously injured, only to find Sam shivering on his knees, covered in vomit and blood. Sam ducked his head as humiliation burned through him. However, his embarrassment was quickly shoved aside by desperation as he felt another round of sick coming on. 

"Cas, he's gonna throw up again," said Gabriel. Cas quickly lunged for the bowl, which had been flung across the room by Sam's foot when he tripped, and was able to get it back to Sam just in time. 

Sam retched into the bowl and wished he were dead. He had never felt so low in his life. He looked disgusting and it didn't help that the pitiful looks he was getting were coming from angels of all creatures. 

Eventually, he was finished, and the bowl was pulled away, but Sam didn't dare wipe his mouth or bleeding nose because his hands were still covered in sick. So were his scrubs from the market. He was embarrassed, cold; he just felt so awful and he didn't know what to do. Castiel took the bowl to be rinsed out and by the time he had returned Gabriel had been studying Sam's current state for a while now.

"He needs a bath," said Gabriel. 

No.

Suddenly all Sam could think about was the market, how Ambreil had rolled her eyes while he was scared, how those angels had touched him and washed him down without his consent and he panicked. He couldn't do that again. He didn't _want_ Castiel or Gabriel to see him like that. 

"G-get the hell away from me," he stammered, "Don't touch me. Don't fucking touch me!"

"Sam?" Dean sat up in bed, delirious and confused, his eyes wide.

"Hey," said Castiel, and his voice was low and quiet and rumbled like gentle thunder. "I didn't say we were going to do anything yet, did I? Gabriel presented an idea, that's all."

Sam was trembling and he hated himself for it, for being such a coward all the damn time. "I don't want you to touch me," he whispered.

"Sammy!" Dean sounded more freaked out now. 

Castiel hurried to go calm Dean, leaving Sam with Gabriel. He flinched when the archangel came far too close for comfort. However, when Gabriel reached for him it was slow, deliberate like he wanted Sam to know exactly where his hands were and that he wasn't going to hurt anybody with them. "Hey, Sasquatch. Maybe not a great idea on my part, but not a terrible one, either. You stink. But I should've said it different. Can you take off your shirt?"

Sam gave a long, drawn-out whine. He didn't want to take it off. " 'S cold. And you're gonna trick me, gonna make me take a bath," he protested.

"I promise I'll do no such thing. Your shirt is covered in blood and puke, dude. It's nasty."

An angel keeping a promise? Unlikely. 

Gabriel seemed to know what Sam was thinking because he pursed his lips and dropped his hands with a sigh. 

"Look, kid, your shirt and your hands caught it all, so if you take it off I swear on Castiel's life—" At this point, Castiel shot Gabriel a dirty look but Gabriel persisted— "That you can go immediately to bed."

Sam didn't trust Gabriel but he had to admit that the archangel didn't sound like he was lying. It could have been a mere deception, sure, but something about it seemed genuine. Sam nodded. Oh, God, it was a bad idea but the word _bed_ just sounded so nice. The blankets seemed to call. 

He allowed Gabriel to pull the shirt up over his head. Sam hissed when the cold air touched his skin, making a violent shudder race down his spine and rage through every limb. He tried to stand, to go back to bed, but the archangel stopped him, muttering the whole while. 

"Come on, kid, your hands are still a mess, do you really think I would let you back in bed like that? Sicko." Gabriel turned the shirt inside out and made Sam wipe his hands on it. 

"I want to go to bed now," whispered Sam shakily, still hesitant on whether or not Gabriel would keep his word. 

"There's still blood pouring out your face. One second."

Sam heard wings flap, and Gabriel was gone. A second later he returned. 

He was holding a clean shirt and thrust a wad of paper towels into the human's hands. "Hold these over your nose-holes while I try to fit this shirt over your head. It should fit — I stole it from a past vessel so it's big on me now. Since then I've only worn it a few times." The shirt smelled of dark chocolate and apples as it was pulled over Sam's torso.

Sam didn't give two flying shits how many times Gabriel had worn it. "Bed?" He asked, voice muffled by paper towels. 

"Bed. Upsy-daisy, Sammy-boy."

Sam didn't complain. He crawled back into bed and flopped down, sinking deeply into the mattress. He pulled the blanket up over his shoulders with one hand, the other still holding paper towels to his nose so he didn't get it all over himself or the bed. Apparently, Dean had gone back to sleep because Castiel came back, sounding tired. He carried the washed-out bowl with him. 

"I'm putting it here, by your head," said Castiel as he set it down next to Sam's pillow. "Try not to miss next time?"

Sam had already fallen asleep. 

*****

The next couple of days for Sam were just random intervals of time in which he could actually process his surroundings, but with the majority being long periods of blackness. He was only aware of how wrong everything was. The aches in his body, the burn in his throat when he threw up, and the awful, teeth grinding headaches were all just a bowl of sickness ice cream with Gabriel's grace being the awful rotten cherry on top. 

At one point, Sam woke up and found himself curled up in the hallway. The actual _hallway_. Then Dean had dragged himself out of bed to get Sam and put him back in bed. 

"C'mon, Sammy, get back in here."

Sam blinked, trying to clear his head. "What am I...?"

"No clue. All I know is I feel like shit and I don't wanna deal with you sleepwalking, too."

"I-I just—" He stopped, unsure of what he was trying to say. 

Dean's harsh, tired expression softened. He grabbed Sam's sleeve and gave it a tug. "I know, man. Now I mean it. Bed."

Every once and a while, when Sam was able to pull his thoughts together long enough to know what was happening around him, Castiel was there. Gabriel was sometimes, too. It was unsettling and Sam hated the touch when the archangel was healing him but honestly, he just felt so awful he didn't even try to stop it. 

For the next two days, he stayed like that, soaking in his own sweat, smelling of vomit and sickness. If he wasn't throwing up he was sore and had a headache. If he didn't have a headache, his throat was burning as he puked uncontrollably into a bowl. There was absolutely no point in time in which _something_ wasn't hurting. Even when Sam slept, there were fever dreams, night terrors. More than once Castiel had to intervene when Dean couldn't control the state in which Sam woke up screaming from nightmares, trying to escape imaginary angels. 

Dean wasn't much better. He probably felt just as sick as Sam did, worse, honestly, but he did such a good job of hiding it. All for Sam's sake, too, which made him feel even more pathetic if that was possible. Dean was just so good at manning up and taking care of things and Sam couldn't even go an hour without puking or having a nightmare.

Soon he was too exhausted to care. 

*****

Sam wondered what 'okay' felt like. 

It sounded nice. 

*****

Finally, almost two days later, Sam woke up and he stayed awake for two whole hours. Then he fell asleep again, but when he woke, not only was he able to think properly, but he actually felt better. Well, not great. But better. 

Sam sat up. His head felt light, his vision spun a little, but he was almost sort of fine. Dean was snoring in bed. God, did he ever look awful. Dean's face was stark white except for his red cheeks and his hair was stuck up and messy. Sam realized he probably looked just as bad.

He tested the floor carefully this time, making sure there was nothing to trip over before he could stand. His knees felt weak as hell but he only wobbled a little when he stood and found he could actually take a few steps. Nausea rolled over in his stomach but he pushed it down. 

"Dean," whispered Sam, then cringed at the sound of his voice. It was a hoarse and dry croak that extremely differed from how he normally sounded. "Bro. Are you awake?"

Dean opened one eye. Then he closed it again. "Puke on me and I'll kill ya."

"Are you still sick?"

"Sick of you talkin'."

"Dean."

Dean sighed. "I feel like ass, but I'm not sick, not like a few days ago. I'm trying to sleep the rest of it off. You should, too, now that I think of it. Why aren't you in bed?"

"Because... I dunno. I'm tired of lying there."

"You look like you're gonna hurl any second."

Sam smiled grimly. "Yeah, I feel like it, too."

"So get back in bed, you—" Dean was interrupted when there was a knock on the door. 

The two brothers froze. Then, in half a second, Sam launched himself across the room back to his bed, feeling like he had been caught in the act despite not doing anything wrong. He only just got into a normal sitting position when the door slid open to reveal Castiel standing there, holding a tray that contained soup and two glasses of water. He must've been surprised to see Sam sitting up normally, but like all angels, Castiel didn't seem to be all there emotionally. He gave a slow blink and that was all. Not even a double-take.

"I'm pleased to see you awake, Sam," he said.

"Uh... Thanks." Sam looked down at his hands. "Is your brother still here?"

"Gabriel left this morning."

Dean pushed himself up so that he was somewhat sitting as well. "I smell food."

"I'm delivering it," answered Castiel. "Gabriel said you two would be feeling better by the third or fourth day so I decided to see if either of you felt like eating."

The sight of food made Sam feel a mixture of longing but also disgust as his somewhat nauseated stomach rolled threateningly. There was something else, too, a sensation that food would feel great but that he wasn't actually too hungry. Dean's brow furrowed, a hand moved to his stomach. He seemed to be feeling similarly to Sam was and it confused him. After all, Dean rarely turned down food. 

"I know you aren't very hungry. It's because heaven rids your body of all your earthly needs, including your need for food. However, it would be good for you to try at least a little, it would speed up the rest of your healing," pointed out Castiel.

"I won't be able to eat anymore?" Dean cried, and Sam knew immediately that his brother as focused on nothing else but the possible loss of pie.

"You could, you just won't need to. Here." 

Castiel handed them each a bowl of soup and set the glasses down on a nightstand. Sam held the dish carefully in his lap, his mouth watering at the smell of the chicken noodle while the steam warmed his face. He twiddled the spoon in his hand for a moment. He was expecting Castiel to leave but the angel still stood there, like he was waiting for something. 

"Is there anything else?" Dean asked, brow furrowing. "No offense but we ain't even close to the relationship level where you can watch me eat."

"I— Yes, but, well..." Castiel's brow furrowed. "Never mind. I want both of you to eat and then we can talk about it later."

Sam wasn't one to complain about keeping as much distance between himself and Castiel as possible, so he didn't say anything, but Dean was intrigued. 

"Why? What's going on?"

"Eat, Dean. I said we'll talk later." Castiel glanced at his wristwatch. "Both of you need to stay in bed for a couple of hours to rest. Then, sometime this evening, I'll take you out to my garden to talk. We have much to discuss and I read in a book that fresh air is good for humans when they're recovering from sickness."

When Castiel left, Dean turned to Sam, his lips pursed. "Something's up with that guy."

"Something's up with all of them, Dean. Angels are weird."

"I mean specifically him. He's different, first off, which is weirder than the weird you're talking about. Second off, he seems like he's got something to say but he's acting like it's a big secret. Like he's ashamed of it or something."

Sam scoffed. "Or something. Again, angels are weird. Just because he's not as bad as the others are doesn't mean he's great. He still bought us, he owns our lives. We can't forget that just 'cause he hasn't tried to beat us."

Dean stared at the doorway where Castiel had been standing for a moment, appearing deep in thought. "I'm not saying that this whole thing isn't messed up, smart one. I'm saying that he's hiding something."

 _Isn't everybody?_ Sam wanted to say, but he kept it to himself. "True that," he said instead.

"Yeah, whatever. Shut up and eat your soup."

So that was what they did. However what Castiel had said about needed to eat rang true; as much as he wanted to savor the salty flavor of chicken noodle soup, Sam found that he just couldn't stomach it. He had no hunger and therefore no desire to eat. He finished about half the bowl before he put it on the nightstand and drank some water. Also, he would be lying if he said he didn't take about a two-hour nap after that. 

When he woke up he felt even better than before. 

Dean was staring at the ceiling, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the mattress as he thought deeply about something. When he heard Sam stir, however, he stopped, looking over to make sure everything was okay. 

"What were you thinking about?" Asked Sam with a yawn.

"About how I need to give you a much-needed haircut," answered Dean, then, in a more serious tone, "How we're gonna bust out of here."

Sam frowned. He shifted in bed, sitting up and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders while he tried to think. Busting out of here... That sounded nice. Great, even. But where would they go? Plus Castiel hadn't told them if any of their friends were alive yet, and they couldn't just abandon Garth, Kevin, and Charlie if there was a chance they were still in heaven somewhere. 

"What?" Asked Dean defensively. He must've been expecting a different reaction.

"Nothing! Nothing." Sam took a deep breath, hesitating before saying, "Look, I wanna go home just as much as you do. But Cas said—"

"Angels say a lot of things, Sam." Dean closed his eyes.

"I know, but what if this time one of them is telling the truth?"

"He isn't. Angels lie."

"Dean..."

"We don't know for sure, okay? So let's just leave it at that instead of just giving up!" Dean's eyes snapped open, his voice biting and harsh. 

The next hour was spent in silence.

Then, the hour after that, the only exchange the brothers had was when Sam sneezed and Dean replied with a 'bless you.' Sam was slightly hurt that Dean had snapped at him but he knew that his brother was sorry, even if he didn't say it, so he didn't bring it up. He mostly just twiddled his thumbs and let his mind drift until he finally decided he wanted to get out of bed. 

"Where are you going?" Asked Dean irritably. 

"Downstairs."

"Why?"

"Because I want to," said Sam. He got out of bed and left the room before Dean could reply, feeling a small amount of satisfaction at the stunned expression on his brother's face. Maybe he was still a little bitter at being snapped at after all.

Walking felt good. He leaned heavily on the railing for support as he went down the stairs, but honestly, that was the least of his worries. He was out of bed and that was good. A moment later, Sam heard the door to their room close and knew that Dean was up, too. Dean grumbled under his breath as he stumbled down the stairs to catch up to Sam. Then he stopped.

"Whoa," said Dean, forgetting about their brief angry exchange, "Is that a bathroom? I call the first shower!"

"Hey, if anyone needs the first shower I do. I got up first!"

"Well, I found the bathroom first, so suck it!"

Dean bowled past him, nearly tripping at the bottom step since he was still weak from being sick, and just managed to get to the bathroom before Sam did. He shut the door loudly. Sam scowled and jiggled the knob, but it was locked. 

"Jerk."

"Bitch," called Dean through the door. This was followed by the sound of running water. "Dude, the bathtub is _massive_."

"I thought you wanted to get out of here, and now you're gushing over an effing tub."

"I do want out of here. But that's gonna take a minute to figure out and I plan to spend it here, in this glorious, majestic, built-for-me tub."

"Whatever, you're nuts. I'm leaving," said Sam with an eye-roll.

Well, 'leaving' meant walking about two yards away into the living room because Sam wasn't actually going to explore this whole place without Dean. It wasn't because he was scared, or so he tried to convince himself, anyway. He just wanted Dean there as a backup. That was how it always was. They were a team, especially now that they were trapped in some weird-ass angel's nest without any comprehensible hope of escape. 

But Dean was probably gonna be a while. Sam didn't want to just stand there awkwardly, so he took a seat on the very edge of the couch, trying to touch it as little as possible. He kept his hands folded in his lap and leaned forward a bit, his knee bouncing up and down with nerves. What if Castiel came back? What would he want? 

Speaking of Castiel, Sam heard a door open somewhere to his left, coming from one of the wide hallways he had yet to explore. He felt immediate guilt and fear, almost as though he had done something wrong, and jumped off the couch.

Castiel entered the room carrying a box in his hands. He seemed surprised when he saw Sam standing there, and intrigued by the look on the human's face. Then a smile touched his lips.

"Sam," he said kindly, "You're allowed to touch the furniture, you know. It's there for a reason."

Sam's cheeks grew red. "I-I know, I just wasn't s— I mean—" Okay, now he was just digging himself into a deeper hole. He cut off suddenly, embarrassed. His heart was thumping rapidly in his chest.

Castiel glanced towards the bathroom, where the sound of running water could be heard. "Hmm. Dean doesn't seem to have had a problem making himself at home. He seems relaxed enough, why aren't you?"

"Dean... Dean is just like that. He doesn't care," said Sam, feeling slightly sheepish for his brother. The fear didn't go away. Even though Castiel had been kind so far, every other angel he had ever met was a monster, and Sam's instincts were telling him to get the hell away. He had to force himself to stand still.

Castiel shrugged a little. Then he gestured for Sam to sit down. Afraid of what would happen if he didn't, Sam carefully lowered himself down to the couch, still making sure he didn't touch it. Castiel seemed to be aware of his nervousness because when he sat, it was of a plenty respectful distance away. He opened the box he was holding. Sam was surprised to see there were stacks of clothes inside. 

"I wasn't sure what you or your brother like to wear, so I had Gabriel find whatever he deemed suitable. Neither of you seems to have a particularly eccentric fashion sense so I think these should do," said Castiel. 

It was just plain T-shirts, sweatpants, and jeans mostly, the shirts made of a material that Sam didn't recognize. He reached out to touch one of the shirts lying on top. Then he remembered that he hadn't asked for permission, and wasn't that something he was supposed to do? Or wait until it was handed to him? Most angels thought humans befouled things that they touched and he didn't want to offend Castiel. Sam froze, afraid to look up.

Castiel took note of this. So he slowly reached inside the box and retrieved one of the shirts, a long-sleeved one that was dark green in color, placing it into Sam's hand. It had silkiness to it but it was mostly soft, like cotton. 

"You're still wearing your scrubs from the market, so I thought you'd like a change. These are yours and Dean's. You don't need to worry about touching things that belong to you." Castiel kept his voice gentle. Then, a hint of amusement crept in. "I see you're still in Gabriel's shirt, as well. How's it suiting you?"

Relieved about the change of subject, Sam jumped on the new topic. "He only gave it to me because I... Well, you were there." The sound of water running in the bathroom ceased.

"That I was. I don't think I'll forget it, either," the angel chuckled.

Sam blushed again. Within days of knowing Castiel, he and Dean had proceeded to throw up on almost every surface in that room, including but not limited to the freaking archangel Gabriel. No wonder angels thought humans were gross.

Right then the door opened. Dean had redressed himself in his scrubs since he had no other clothes, but his skin looked clean and his hair was damp. His cheeks were still a little pink from the fever, but the hot shower had probably had something to do with that as well. He looked at Sam with a grin, probably going to crack a joke about his little brother's bedhead, but then he saw Castiel and the smile faded.

"Hello, Dean," said Castiel.

Dean stood there, eyes on Sam. _Everything okay?_ He seemed to ask.

Sam nodded. 

"I've got some clothes here that I was just showing Sam," the angel informed him, "They're for both of you. I'm assuming you would like to change before we have our talk; you've been wearing those scrubs for days now and they're hardly clean."

For the third time, Sam felt his face get red. He knew he was unclean, he _felt_ unclean; He had puked all over himself not even a day ago. It was just so much more embarrassing when an angel pointed it out for some reason.

"Okay," said Dean, keeping his voice cool. He didn't seem nervous to be in Castiel's presence at all, even if he was only pretending, which Sam envied. 

Dean changed in their room while Sam took a fast shower. First of all, Dean was right, the bathtub was more of a small pool than a tub. The shower was big as well, similar to a tiled room with more than one showerhead and a drain in the middle. Who the hell needed that much room when they showered anyway? 

The green long-sleeved shirt fit easily, the fabric sliding over his skin pleasantly. He opted for sweatpants because they were more comfortable. 

He was about to walk back out to the living room when Sam accidentally glanced in the mirror on his way out. God, he looked horrific. He stopped, staring in horror. Though his hair was more managed now his face was still deathly pale, his cheeks pink like Dean's. His lips were chapped and he had bags under his eyes. All of these features were left over from being sick, and Sam didn't even feel one hundred percent better yet. He left the bathroom with a sigh.

Dean and Castiel were waiting for him. Castiel looked slightly concerned, but Dean had a scowl on his face. Sam wondered what they had been talking about while he was gone that had led to those expressions. 

"Come," said Castiel, more so to an obviously discouraged Dean than to Sam, "Both of you follow me, please. Something very important has come up and I'd like you to hear it from me instead of somebody else."

Sam felt goose bumps pop up all over his body. That certainly didn't sound good. Cautiously, and sticking close to his brother, he and Dean followed Castiel as he led them out to a back door. 

They were outside, but the temperature hadn't changed, and there was no breath of fresh air. It didn't smell very different, either. It was just like the inside only the carpet was grass and the furniture were trees and bushes. It was like the outside had just been painted over the inside. Like it was fabricated. 

It was still beautiful. Castiel had a beautiful garden, full of different flowers and yet still appreciated leafy greens that didn't bloom. Orange and lemon trees were scattered throughout. Sam walked by a bush of golden Japanese roses, pausing in inhale deeply. The flowers had no scent. For some reason, Sam found this disturbing, repressing a shiver. 

Maybe the garden wasn't so beautiful after all. 

"Sit." Castiel gestured at one of the benches. 

Dean paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a second. Sam watched to see what he would do. Finally, Dean made up his mind and sat on the bench, one leg crossed comfortably over the other. He maintained direct eye contact with Castiel. Sam sat but he was hardly as relaxed as his brother.

"Alright, what's going on?" Dean demanded. 

Castiel reached into the inside of his pocket and retrieved a slip of paper that was folded into a small square. Sam could've sworn that the angel's hands were shaking but if they were Castiel stopped so quickly that he couldn't be sure. The angel unfolded the paper and handed it to Dean. 

Dean read over it quickly. 

"Are you fucking kidding me," he said. 

"What?" Sam demanded. "Dean, let me see."

"Did you do this?" Dean shouted. Castiel didn't react, didn't even flinch. "Huh? Was this your idea?"

"No. It was Michael's."

"Dean!" Sam said loudly, "I said, let me _see._ "

He snatched the paper out of his brother's hand. 

Adrenaline flooded his system. It felt as though someone had just splashed gasoline on the spark of fear in his belly, inspiring a raging fire of panic as he scanned line after line. Dean grabbed his arm. "Steady, Sammy," he said, but Sam couldn't hear him. 

His body started shaking like there was hurricane inside his, the whistle of the storm in his own thoughts blocking out the voices that tried to console him. But Sam's words were fragmented, his thoughts unable to string together sentences to convey what he was feeling so he was _trying_ , trying but failing and stuttering up a storm of incomprehensible words. 

"Sam, Sam," he heard people say, but the wind raged. 

He gripped the paper so tightly his knuckles turned white and the paper crumpled. His knees became weak. 

The day everything had happened, the sky had been red with the haze of the sun shining contaminated air. The sky had wept, too, sending a river of blood through the street of bodies. The rain hitting his skin had brought Sam back to reality, then, pulled him from the panic of waking up in a sea of corpses. 

The sky didn't cry now. There were no heavenly tears to pull Sam out of this. He stared up at the sky, ignoring the voices around him as he clutched the papers to his chest, searching for something, something that would wake him up again. But the sky was white, empty. 

Sam realized with a jolt that there was no sun in heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what was on that paper? ;)


	6. Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I forgot to specify their ages, I just wanted you guys to know that in this fic Sam is like 23 and Dean is around 26-27 :) Guess that's their ages forever now since they're immortal??? But you can imagine them as old as you want, it's up to your imagination if you like :D

Dean wished to all hell that he could have time to panic, but duty called, as per usual.

It had been a day since Castiel had broken the news to them in the garden. It was the first time Dean had seen Sam have what he could only describe as a full-on breakdown, and even now, a day later, his little brother was always on the verge of being consumed by panic. Castiel was completely helpless to do anything about this. So that left Dean. Not that it mattered, really, taking care of Sam had been Dean’s job since day one.

So, of course, we wished he could panic. Hell, freak out, even. All Dean wanted was time to himself to unpack everything he had just learned about his near future, but like always, he pushed the panic down. He called on his anger instead because it was on anger that he could focus. It was with this frustration that he could drive himself forward to take care of Sam, instead of freezing uselessly like a deer in the headlights. 

Right, the garden, the paper, Sam and Castiel and utter chaos as a terribly confused angel did his best to talk Sam back down from the edge. Overwhelmed, Castiel seemed desperate, concerned for Dean as well as his brother but completely inept to do anything.

An entire day. 

It didn’t feel like a day had gone by. 

Currently, Sam was curled up next to Dean on the couch. He had recently started biting his nails.

“Stop that.” Dean pulled Sam’s hand away. 

Sam shot him a glare before folding his hands into his lap. He pulled his knees into his chest, proceeding to stare straight ahead. His gaze seemed distant. 

Dean noticed a small cup sitting on the coffee table. It smelled pretty good. Trying to find something that wasn't miserable to talk about, Dean jumped to this. 

"Did Castiel give this to you?"

"Yeah."

"Any good?"

"I guess," shrugged Sam. Ever since yesterday, he hadn't really been one to talk much. He had no desire to start a conversation about anything at all.

 _That went fan-fucking-tastic,_ thought Dean. With a sigh, he knew there was no avoiding what he knew both of them were thinking about. "Look, Sammy—"

“What are we going to do?”

Dean liked having answers. He liked knowing how to handle things, how to console his brother when it seemed everything had gone wrong. But in this moment, no matter how he racked his brain or desperately combed through his thoughts for any one answer he could, Dean came up with nothing. 

He realized Sam was now staring at him with fear in his eyes. 

“It’s gonna be fine, okay?” Said Dean quickly. 

“Is it?”

 _God I have no fucking clue—_ “Of course it is. I don’t know what we’re gonna do, or what’s gonna happen, and that’s the truth. What I do know is that we’ll bounce back. ” He knew it was a bullshit vague answer, but it was all he had. “That’s what we always do.”

“I know that we’ll _live_ ,” said Sam with a shake of his head, “But I— You know we’ve never done something like this. Not without each other.” A hint of hysteria crept into his voice. “I don’t— I can’t—”

His chest felt very tight. What he had said was utter crap, Sam knew it, and Dean knew it, too. They were both fucked. 

And Dean was terrified. 

“Hey, right here, right now, we’re fine. Nothing is gonna happen to you while we’re with Cas.” That was arguable, Castiel hadn’t tried to hurt them _yet_. “Do you need to get up and walk around or something?”

Sam resumed biting his thumbnail and shook his head. His breathing came a little faster than before and was much more shallow, but he leaned heavily into Dean and fell silent. Dean wondered if he had actually helped or made things worse. He seemed to have a habit of doing the latter. 

Above them, the soft sound of someone walking down the stairs could be heard. Dean knew it was Castiel, and part of him still detested the angel, but the rest of him was eager for someone to talk to.

After all, Sam and Dean both handled stress very differently. Dean felt the need to do something about what was happening; even if he couldn’t escape the situation he could move, he could pace, he could do something with his hands to stay somewhat in control. Sam just wanted it to be quiet. He usually stayed in bed or on the couch and didn’t talk. Dean found this a little frustrating at times because even though Sam didn’t feel this way, Dean wanted nothing more than to just talk to him.

Desperate for any sort of normal interaction, Dean was surprised to find that his spirits rose a little when Castiel descended the stairs. 

“How are you?” Castiel asked the question somewhat awkwardly and mostly to be polite; he knew that Sam and Dean were hardly doing well. 

“Fine,” said Dean, “For now, anyway.”

Sam scoffed so quietly that only Dean heard it. 

Castiel normally did what he could to ease their worries. Even if there was nothing he could do that truly worked, he still tried. Dean couldn’t decide if he admired the angel or hated him for it. None of this was Castiel’s fault, precisely, but god, angels just couldn’t leave things alone, could they? Something always had to be redone, a new creation added to the complex arrangement of angelic society, an invention intended to remind other beings just how weak they were in comparison to celestial strength. Castiel wasn’t cruel, but in the end, he was still an angel. And in Dean’s book… _If the wings fit, ya know?_

Castiel gave him a nod, apparently unsure of what else to say. He headed into the kitchen. 

Sam’s eyes were still closed. He was hardly okay, but for the moment, he looked like he wouldn’t fall apart. 

“Hey, Sam, I’m gonna — Jesus christ, quit biting your nails — I’ll be right back, ‘kay?”

“Okay.” Sam’s voice was a monotone mumble.

“I’ll be right back,” repeated Dean worriedly before standing up and following Castiel into the kitchen. 

Castiel heard him enter and looked over his shoulder, blinking in surprise when Dean seated himself on one of the stools at the kitchen island. There was a kettle lightly bubbling away on the stove.

“What are you doing?” Asked Dean, only because he sensed that if he didn’t a ridiculously awkward angel would be lost on what to say.

Castiel looked somewhat bashful for a second before his face was wiped clean of emotion. “I’m… Making you tea.”

 _Of course you are,_ thought Dean. 

“Thanks, but I think I’m good.” Ever since learning he no longer needed to eat or drink, Dean found that his desire for any sort of consumable substance was limited. Besides, he was too nervous to drink anything. 

“I think it would do you some good.”

“Don’t want it,” said Dean, more flatly this time. He ignored it when the kettle started to whistle and asked the question that had been on his mind for the last day, “When are your guys coming for us?”

Castiel sighed. “I made Sam tea this morning, and he seemed to like it. It’s a soothing ambrosia blend for your nerves.”

Dean glanced over at Sam from where he sat at the kitchen island. Sam was still there on the couch, chin to his chest with heavy-lidded eyes only half-open. Despite the fact that the kid was ridiculously tall he looked tiny curled up like that. Dean felt his chest ache. To think that soon Sam was going to be taken, tortured, and beat into submission was too much for him to handle. 

Suddenly Dean’s throat tightened up. In his whirlwind of emotions from the past few days, he knew he hadn’t allowed himself to fully react to what was going to happen, this program he was forced to participate in. Now he was feeling it all at once. 

“I don’t want your damn tea,” snapped Dean, then repeated his question. “When are they coming for us?”

Castiel didn’t answer right away. He poured some of the contents of the kettle into a little cup, set it on the counter, and pushed it towards Dean. Dean had never been a tea drinker. This stuff, however, resting heavily in its cup, had a tantalizing smell that wafted up gently and actually made his mouth water. Dean had to force himself to ignore it. 

“Soon. Sometime tomorrow,” answered Castiel finally. 

“When tomorrow?”

“I’ve elected not to tell you that.”

“The hell— why?” Dean cried.

“Because that would make it so much worse. I won’t have the two of you watching the clock for hours on end, waiting for what you believe to be your doom. It’s easier this way,” said Castiel almost pleadingly, like he was desperate for Dean to understand. 

Dean shook his head. “It’s not, it’s so not. C’mon, Castiel, you can’t—”

The angel picked up the cup of tea and pressed it into Dean’s hands. “Drink,” he said softly. 

Frustrated and scared, Dean wanted to argue, yell, hell, even throw a fit, but Sam was right there in the living room listening to everything that was being said. He knew he would scare Sam if he wasn’t careful. 

His grip tightened on the tiny cup so much that he could’ve shattered it if he wanted. 

“In addition to that, the angels coming to retrieve you aren’t my ‘guys,’ as you put it. None of this was my idea. If it were up to me…” Castiel’s voice trailed off. 

Dean ignored him. “What are they going to do to us?” He asked. Despite his fear, he made sure to lower his voice. He didn’t want to give Sam a heart attack or anything. 

“I don’t know.” Then Castiel frowned. “No, that would be a lie. I have a rough idea. I wrote the outline and executed the order myself, after all. What I mean is that Michael specifically made sure that what I designed was only acceptable if the rules could be… interpreted in many different ways. The angels who have leading jobs in this program have a lot of liberty as to what they can do and how they choose to proceed.”

“Okay, don’t be so literal, just tell me what you can.”

“Drink some tea first. Only a little.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but honestly, this ambrosia stuff smelled fucking amazing. Despite this he still didn’t need to pretend to be irritated as he took a sip of the warm liquid. It was thick and sweet, almost overly so but at the same time just right, and slid down his throat easily. Dean’s eyes widened. Recently all food and drink left him feeling sick. This stuff was just fine.

“It’s a non-alcoholic deviation of ambrosia. It’s quite common in heaven, as ambrosia is one of the few things angels can actually taste,” explained Castiel. 

“ ‘S good,” said Dean. Then realized what he had admitted and his cheeks flushed pink when Castiel’s expression became one of amusement. “Can you tell me what’s going to happen now?”

The angel seemed disappointed that Dean hadn’t fallen for the abrupt change of subject. 

“I… I don’t want to frighten you.” Castiel glanced to where Sam was sleeping on the couch, his eyebrows drawn together in the middle. 

“Too late. You might as well.”

The angel seemed to hesitate. Finally, he said, “Sam is going to be taken by Michael’s forced to be trained in factory work. Michael has always run that division.” When Dean began to interrupt in a panic, Castiel stopped him quickly, explaining, “Don’t worry, Michael won’t be there. He’s above training slaves so your brother shouldn’t have to come in contact with anyone but the overseer. Also, since I own Sam, they can’t inflict any permanent damage to his body. He won’t be blinded like the rest of Michael’s slaves.”

Dean shivered a little. He was, of course, glad that Michael wouldn’t be there, but even still, the little comfort that brought him was nothing in comparison to the worry he felt for Sam. Sam was hardly breakable or delicate, he was a Winchester after all. It was just that this was going to be damaging in ways that no one could understand yet. 

“Also…” Trying to think of a decent way to say this, Dean said, “Not to sound self-absorbed or anything, but—” 

“You aren’t selfish or self-absorbed for being concerned about your future.”

Dean had been trying to be casual about this but he felt himself blushing red. “Yeah, whatever. I just— I mean, they called me a ‘pleasurer.’ I can read between the lines. Are they gonna… I mean, am _I—_ ”

He was stumbling over the words like a champ, heart beating rapidly in his chest with the acknowledgment that Castiel’s answer was going to bring to realize Dean’s worst fear. Deep down, Dean already knew what was going to happen to him. He was clinging to some form of denial even though he knew the truth was obvious. He just desperately wanted Castiel to tell him otherwise, even if it was a longshot. 

Castiel seemed to be trying to find the right words to break it to Dean gently. His expression said it all. 

“I-I can’t do that. I can’t.” Suddenly there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room. “I know I gotta and I don’t have a choice but I _can’t_. There has to be something you can do.”

“No ‘freaking out,’ as you call it. You’ll wake Sam,” said Castiel gently. “I know it’s a lot to take in.”

He refilled Dean’s cup with more ambrosia tea. Suddenly it less appetizing than it had been before and he tried to refuse it, but Castiel pushed it back into Dean’s hand. “Cas…”

“Just drink a little more. I promise it will help you feel better.”

Dean was being overtaken by anxiety and found that he was too exhausted to argue. With shaking hands he accepted the cup and again took a small sip. The ambrosia was just as sweet as before, sending warm tingles through his body. 

“Listen, Dean, I own you. I know that isn’t what you wanted, but in this case, it might actually be a good thing. Angels are possessive and territorial creatures. Since you’re legally mine, no one is allowed to participate in actual intercourse with you. This would be very different if you were still within the custody of the market.”

“So they can’t rape me, but they can touch me all they want. Great.”

Castiel winced. “I know it isn’t much better, but it’s something.”

Dean shook his head and took another gulp of tea. His fingertips felt warm and the sensation started to spread. The anxiousness tried to take over but it soon dispersed like ripples over a smooth pond. 

“Soothing blend, huh? You're such a hippie mom,” said Dean with only a slightly bitter laugh. “You should give Sam some of this stuff again.”

“He still has some from this morning.”

Dean turned his head back to the living room again. Sam, who was now passed out on the couch, still had the empty cup limply in his hands. So this stuff was supposed to make them less nervous, right? Good job of it. Dean would have laughed or at least chuckled if he was capable — something told him that Castiel had put a little more in this cup besides tea.

“You said this is a non-alcoholic version of the real stuff?” Dean asked, feeling empty, tired. Castiel gave him a weird look. 

“Yes?”

“Tea ain’t cutting it. I think I’m gonna need the hard shit.”

“Humans shouldn’t drink actual ambrosia liquor,” said Castiel with a frown. “The liquor is about as close as one can get to ambrosia in its purest form, which could easily kill a human if you aren’t careful. In fact, from this point on, you are never to accept any form of ambrosia from anyone but me. Do you understand? I forbid you.”

 _I forbid you._ The words sent a chill down Dean’s spine. Sounded awful master-ish, the sort of tone reserved for a misbehaving dog or in this case, slave.

Castiel took Dean’s now empty cup, washing it out in the sink. Rooted to the spot, Dean stared at the back of the angel’s head, waiting for Castiel to realize what he had said. 

Castiel didn’t turn around. 

Dean got up, clenching his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. He walked as quickly as he could over to where Sam was sleeping on the couch, seating himself next to his brother instead. He tried to calm himself down.

 _Slip of the tongue_ , he thought, trying to rationalize, _That's all. Cas didn't really mean it like that. He was just trying to discourage me from something, not... not command me around like a real slave._

Still, he was far from comforted. Dean drew his knees into his chest and rested his cheek on his kneecaps, eyes half-closed. Whatever was in that tea had worked; he felt pleasantly warm and the weight of the heavy ambrosia tea in his stomach made him feel full. Sam seemed to have the right idea about going to sleep. Dean allowed his eyes to close.

The room started to get dark, which he didn't mind. His breaths started to even out.

He heard Castiel's shoes making quiet sounds as he moved across the house. A door opened. Then it closed and Castiel came back into the room. Dean didn't care to see what it was, but every now and then there was the sound of a page turning so he guessed it might be a book. Did Castiel maybe have a library? Sam would love that.

The quiet sound of Sam's breathing next to him, along with the repetition of the occasional page being turned, was more than enough to lull Dean off to sleep.

*****

The next day was torture. Despite previously being able to hide most of his fear the day before, even Dean could no longer ignore the sensation of rapidly approaching demise. 

Sam had woken up that morning in a really bad way. He kept his blanket wrapped tightly around his body, refusing to get out of bed. His eyes flicked back and forth nervously like he was trying to plot an escape route for when the time came that he would need it. 

Dean had done all he could to calm him, but he himself was in no place to be able to do such a thing properly. For the sake of himself and Sam, he eventually caught Castiel alone in the hallway outside their room and begged him to drug both of them again. 

Castiel looked alarmed at this request. “I didn’t _drug_ you. The drink I gave you yesterday is simply infused to raise the levels of naturally occurring melatonin in your brain; I would never do something like that to you without your permission.”

“You have my permission. Please, when those guys show up it’s going to be a mess, and you know it. I’ll fight them. I know I’m just a human and they’re angels, but I won’t be able to help it, they’re gonna take Sam, and I— I-I can’t—” Dean was on the edge, whether it was of shouting or crying he wasn’t sure, but he knew he was close to losing it regardless. “ _Please_ , Cas.”

“Dean, I need you to calm down—”

“Don’t you tell me to calm down!” Dean’s voice was loud, nearly shrill with panic. 

It got very quiet. 

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” said Castiel quietly. “I could never hope to understand what this is like for you, and I should have tried to be more understanding.”

Chest heaving, Dean felt his eyes grow hot and knew that he was close to tears. It took every bit of will that he had left to hold them back and he sniffed, barely keeping it together. “I don’t want to go with them,” he whispered. 

“I know. I’m truly sorry.” Castiel’s voice was understanding and gentle. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Drug the shit out of us.”

The angel’s face fell. “If that’s what you truly want, I will comply, but I wish there was something else that would help.”

“Unless you have some secret plan in your back pocket to get me and Sam out of this, this is all we want,” said Dean firmly. 

“Alas, I do not,” said Castiel with a shake of his head. “Go get in bed, I suppose. I’ll be up shortly with your request.”

Relieved, Dean went back into their room. Sam was on his side, curled up into a ball with the blanket wrapped around his body. His eyes fell onto Dean when he closed the door. 

“What is it?” He asked. 

Dean sat on the edge of his own bed, knee bouncing up and down while he chewed his lip nervously. “Castiel is gonna bring us more of that stuff from yesterday.”

“Oh.”

“… Are you okay?” It was a shot in the dark. 

“No. You?”

“Not even close.”

About ten minutes later there was a knock at the door. Castiel entered with two steaming cups identical to the ones from yesterday. Dean could already smell the ambrosia. 

“It’s the same as what you’re used to… With a slightly different dosage.” Castiel said the words almost apologetically as if Dean hadn’t specifically asked for this. 

Dean felt his courage faltering. Maybe he didn’t want to be out of it when all of this went down, after all.

No. This way there was still freedom, freedom of choice. He was choosing to make this easier of himself, deciding that when those angels arrived to take him and Sam, they wouldn’t get the satisfaction of a show. Before he lost his courage completely Dean drained the cup as fast as he could. 

“What’s in it?” Asked Sam uncertainly. 

“It’s—” Castiel started to say before Dean interrupted him. 

“Just drink it, Sammy,” said Dean, eyes closed. Sam wasn’t an idiot. He obviously knew that something was in the tea by now, but he didn’t really need to know the extent of what it was Dean has asked for. Not when it would just stress him out. 

Suspicious, scared, and more then a little confused, Sam hesitated before taking a tiny sip. He seemed to be made aware that there was no strange taste so he took another. 

“It will help, I promise,” said Castiel. 

Despite not trusting angels, Sam seemed to believe Castiel now. Dean was relieved when Sam finished the remainder of what was in the cup. 

“When will it kick in?” Dean asked. His limbs felt heavy, and his heart, which had previously been beating hard and fast, slowed down to a gentle _lub-dub, lub-dub_ that he hadn’t been expecting. 

“Within the next two minutes or so. It’s rather quick,” answered Castiel, “Is there anything else I can do?”

Dean’s mind wandered back to yesterday, how when he and Sam had fallen asleep on the couch Castiel had stayed with them. He knew he wasn’t alone, not with Sam right there, but he found that he didn’t want Castiel to leave. When the bad angels arrived to take them away—

 _Then what?_ Dean demanded of himself, _What the hell can Castiel do, huh?_

He found it didn’t matter. Having the presence of an angel who was at least maybe on their side would help, right? 

“Please stay,” said Dean, his voice small. On any other occasion, he would have been embarrassed by this, but now it hardly mattered. 

Castiel blinked, perhaps a little off guard at this request, but then his gaze softened. 

“Lie down, both of you. I’ll be right back,” he promised. 

Dean let himself sink into the mattress, burying his face in the pillow while he pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. Enveloped in softness, he tried to memorize what this was like to remember for later. He had a feeling that where he was soon going it would be nowhere near as nice as this. 

“I’m scared,” said Sam, his voice muffled. 

Dean didn’t even have the energy to reply. He heard a noise down the hall that inspired panic in his chest, suddenly afraid that it was the bad angels here to take them away before Castiel got back, but he realized it was just Castiel when the angel came back into their room. He had a book in his hand again. 

“You can sleep if you’d like,” Castiel told them. He sat on the floor, his back against the wall.

The drugs were really starting to kick in, but somehow Sam still had enough wits about him to take note of the book. “ _Les Miserables?_ ” He asked. 

“You’ve read it?” Castiel asked. 

“Not for a long time. When the angels came they destroyed all the books.”

Castiel’s expression flickered for a second, almost like he was pained, but it was gone before Dean could really be sure. 

“Would you like me to read it to you?” He asked gently. 

Dean was too lost to his surroundings to hear Sam’s answer, but a moment later, Castiel’s voice fell upon his ears as he began to read out loud. The words meant nothing to him, too exhausted to pay attention. Still, the angel’s voice was pleasant and almost rhythmic as he spoke. 

This was much better than just silence, he decided. Dean’s eyelids flicked shut a few times before finally closing, and the sound of Castiel’s voice became nothing more than a quiet hum in the background. Despite this, it was all that was needed to carry both brothers into a sleep-like state. 

About a half-hour later, Castiel stopped reading. Sam and Dean were unable to notice. 

Downstairs, a door opened and closed. Distantly, Dean wondered what it could be, but overall he was too tired and his bed was too nice for him to care all that much. 

“Where are they?”

Dean didn’t pay attention to the new voice, other than to acknowledge that it was keeping him from falling asleep so wished that the person would leave. 

“Upstairs, Kerubiel.” That was Castiel, he noted. 

The bedroom door opened. Sam stirred slightly in his sleep.

There was a pause, a shadow passed over Dean’s limited field of vision as someone loomed above him. A finger prodded his shoulder. “Why are they like this?” The new voice boomed. 

Then, Castiel spoke again, dark and angry. “To make things easier on them.” Dean had never heard Castiel angry before. The angel’s voice was cold steel, dripping with icy malice. A shiver ran up his spine he decided he liked Castiel best when he wasn’t angry. 

“They’re Winchesters. Don’t pretend you don’t know them, or their father, at least — everyone does. Trying to separate them would hardly go over well,” snapped Castiel, “Now, are you here to question me or to do your job?”

“Watch yourself. I outrank you—”

 _This Kerubiel guy sounds like a real dickwad_ , thought Dean lazily. He wished that the guy would go away. He thought about trying to move or at least lift his head to try grasp what was going on, but he found he couldn’t even make the effort to try. 

“You did, once,” growled Castiel, “But don’t try to use the excuse of rank on me now that I’ve been promoted to working directly under the archangels themselves. You work for me now. Unless you’d like to be stripped of your position I suggest you shut up, do you job, and get out of my sight.”

There was a longer pause. 

“Yes, Castiel.” The tone was biting, the speaker holding back a torrent of violent emotions. Kerubiel then turned to someone else. “You two, seize the humans immediately. Apparently they won’t be putting up much of a fight.”

Dean wondered if he was actually grateful for Castiel drugging them or if he had changed his mind. He decided it didn’t matter. 

Large, coarse hands wrapped around his upper arms and heaved him to his feet. Dean nearly crumpled, his legs unable to support any weight and his head lolling on his shoulders, but someone held him upright as cold metal snapped around his ankles and wrists tightly enough that it hurt. After that the hands abruptly released him. 

Dean dropped to his knees on the floor. He barely managed to catch himself with his cuffed hands at the last second. Previously nothing had been able to cut through the drug-induced haze, but now he was very aware of the stabbing pain that shot up his wrist.

“D-Dean.” Was that Sam? Probably. “Where's Dean?” Yes, it had to be Sam, confused and afraid and unaware of what was going on.

Dean tried to force his eyes open because Sam was really the only thing here that captured his attention enough that it warranted a response. He turned his head to look for his brother, or tried to anyway, but a rough hand grabbed him by the hair and forced his gaze back to the floor. 

“Take that one to Michael,” ordered Kerubiel, and before Sam could protest, Dean heard the signature _whoosh_ that meant the other angels had already flown away with Sam in tow. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Castiel.” His voice sounded challenging.

Castiel responded in kind. “And I hope that one day you come to know the face of God,” he said coldly.

“Don’t speak like you’re above the rest of us. Someone might start to think you prefer the flies to your own brothers and sisters. Now that… _that_ would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it?” 

The threat hung in the air like a dark cloud. Dean knew that it must’ve made the angel enraged but it wasn’t as if Castiel could actually reply to this, at least, not in the way he wanted to. Castiel had to play along. 

And it was sickening. 

“I made this program, you anserine fool,” said Castiel with a tone that Dean found terrifying, “They are only flies. Now do your job and leave.”

Even though Dean knew that Castiel was only saying the words because he had to, they still stung. 

The room went fully black.


	7. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Sexual assault, violence, torture in the form of burning, and other icky things that I'm probably forgetting. 
> 
> Basically, this whole chapter is just one sad boi. Poor Sammy. Give him many virtual hugs because he definitely needs them after this. 
> 
> Raise your hand if you're in the Sam Winchester protection squad! 🙋🏻
> 
> On second thought, I'm not really protecting him if I put him through this shit... Uh, just don't think too hard about it I guess. I promise I'm not a horrible person!

Every functioning instinct of Sam's body that was capable of thought told him that something was very, very wrong. 

His consciousness seemed to be locked inside his head as though it were caged. His mind was separated from his body. Every movement, glance, and even breath felt like a negotiation rather than an order. 

The last time Sam had felt so shitty was that one time he had been roofied in a bar in Oklahoma City. Dean sure had been pissed at that barista. The following twelve hours had been a mess, too; Sam had needed to be cared for as though he were a child with the flu, but of course, Dean was there the whole time, just like he always was... 

Suddenly, through the haze that clouded his senses and effectively eliminated his ability to move, the broken fragments of Sam's mind drew together to form a single comprehensible thought: _Dean._

Air filled Sam's lungs and he shot into an upright position, chest heaving. 

A chill ran down his spine when he realized he didn't recognize his surroundings. Sam was sitting in a plush red armchair, hands cuffed behind his back. Previously he had been slumped over but now he straightened, desperately trying to take in his surroundings and figure out where the hell he was. Terrified, he realized he could come up with no plausible explanation for why he was here instead of Castiel's nest. 

_Was I drugged?_ He thought frantically. He vaguely remembered Castiel giving them something strange to drink at Dean's request, but it felt like forever ago.

In Castiel's nest, everything was sleek, modern, and in shades of charcoal and cream. This was different, similar to an office space and richly decorated with touches of gold scattered throughout. Not Castiel's style, though that hardly mattered. All he wanted to know was why he was in this place instead of with his brother and their angel. 

"Oh, good, you're awake."

_Fuck that._

Sam's rigid shoulders hunched up to his ears. With a jolt the memories started to slowly make their way back; this must be that program where his training would be, and he had probably been drugged for the sake of the angels' convenience. But… that couldn't be right, could it? Surely Michael himself was too high ranking to be bothered with one human, with one slave. A mistake had to have been made. It couldn't be Michael, not him, please, not _him—_

"Yes, Sam," chuckled Michael, "It's me. You can look at me, you know. I know that you aren't a statue."

_No, no, no, no, no no no no—_

Sam could scarcely breathe. He didn't move, unsure if he even could.

"Are you unhappy to see me?" Michael rested his hand on Sam's shoulder. 

Sam heard the phantom sound of glass shattering and flinched at the touch. His heart seemed to stop beating as Michael rubbed his thumb back and forth on Sam's shoulder in a manner that seemed almost comforting, as though it were intended to soothe. Despite that, Sam was unable to feel anything but wild disbelief and terror.

"Hmm. For some reason, I thought you'd have a little more to say." Keeping his hand on Sam's shoulder, Michael waited for a response. He didn't get one. "There's no need to be so frightened, just so you're aware. I won't punish you for asking any questions. Not now."

Sam swallowed hard. His hands itched to pick at the hem of his shirt but they were cuffed behind his back. 

"What…" The word was just a whisper, hardly even a shred of sound. There were a million things he wanted to ask, a million things he wanted to know, but he didn't know how many questions he was allowed to ask so he attempted to sum it up in one go. He chewed the inside of his cheek for a second before trying again in a trembling voice, "What's going to happen?"

Michael smiled. "This program is going to train you to be a good laborer. There are about twenty other slaves like you here for the same reason, but they aren't special like you are. They're all in a group with an overseer."

"Not me?"

"Not you," said Michael, giving Sam's shoulder a squeeze that sent goosebumps up and down his body. "Think of it as though I'm your private instructor."

Sam didn't like the sound of that at all. He wanted to badly to shrug Michael's hand away, so badly that it was all he could do to not squirm in his seat. All of a sudden he was very aware of the fact that he was alone with the archangel, and that along with the fact that he was so helpless was almost more than he could bear. 

"Why?" Asked Sam in a horrified rasp. 

Michael's hand moved from Sam's shoulder to cup his face, his thumb moving back and forth again only this time on his cheek. The smile never went away. "Because your brother made me angry."

Panic gripped him and he jerked his head away, abruptly withdrawing from Michael's touch as his breath shortened into gasps. _This isn't happening. It's fine, it's fine, everything's fine, I'm going to see Dean soon, it's fine. This isn't happening. This isn't—_

"Come on now, come back to me. Disassociation is not permitted." Michael shook him a little and Sam was reluctantly pulled back into a horrendous reality. 

He was trembling in his seat and he knew how pitiful he looked, painfully aware of the useless waste of a man that he was. Dean would never act like this. Dean wouldn't tremble, he would suck it up, look the threat in the eye, and either escape or take what was coming like an adult instead of behaving like a goddamn child. 

"You're so adorable when you're frightened," said Michael, his voice soft. "I wish they had made you a Pleasurer. But then again, if they had, Raphael would have you and we wouldn't be here."

There was a lot of things wrong with that sentence, but one part in particular stuck out to Sam. His head snapped up, eyes widening. "Wh-what does that mean?"

It was a stupid question, asked not out of curiosity but raw desperation. Sam already knew the answer. Even if the denial kept him from acknowledging it, he knew. 

Michael's face was terrifying close. "Hush." 

Hands still cupping Sam's face, Michael connected their lips slowly. At first, Sam went completely blank as his mind tried to retreat to some sort of mental safe zone, but then he felt Michael's lips moving against his own and a tongue pushed its way through to explore all corners of Sam's mouth. His heart stalled. 

Sam yelped when Michael nipped at him, the kiss being rough as the archangel pulled his air and pulled to allow himself better access to the human's mouth. Panic was already surging but now it took over. In the moment he forgot about any repercussions and Sam ripped away to break the kiss. If one could even call it a real kiss, anyway. In Sam's book kissing was reserved for two people who loved each other, and this wasn't love. No way. Love didn't hurt. 

"Don't be scared, tiny human, it isn't that difficult." Michael sounded annoyed. 

Sam's chest was heaving and he shook his head frantically. "Don't do this," he nearly begged.

Michael ignored him and forcefully guided Sam's face back towards his by pulling painfully hard on the human's hair. Sam felt his scalp burn, his skin tearing and all he wanted was to extricate the painful grip from his hair. He was forced to comply

Michael resumed the aggressive kiss. This time he kept one hand on the back of Sam's head and the other on his chest to keep him from moving away.

Sam struggled, but Michael was so much stronger. When he bit into the soft flesh of Sam's lower lip, causing him to cry out in surprise and pain, the archangel seemed to find this funny. He smiled against Sam's mouth — which was now filled with the taste of blood — before moving on to nip at his jaw next. 

In some sort of irrational fight or flight behavior, Sam's instincts kicked in and he aimed a solid kick at Michael's kneecap. 

Michael struck him so fast that Sam didn't even realize he had been hit until multiple drawn-out seconds after it happened. The pain caught up, his vision doubled, and everything he saw seemed to vibrate in time with the buzzing in his skull and the ringing in his ears. Sam's cheek stung but the ache in his jaw was worse, the sensation seeming to reverberate down his spine. 

"Listen well, fly," said Michael in a voice that was soft yet still filled with malice, "There is no option where you win. You are a slave, I am your superior. You have no right to refuse me."

Sam's mouth tasted like blood, and worst of all, he felt something small and in likeness to a pebble resting on his tongue. In some amount of shock, Sam didn't acknowledge this pain. Instead, he found that this 'pebble' was actually one of his molars; Michael had knocked it clean out. Sam spat the tooth into his lap as his eyes began to water. 

"I-I can't do this. Anything else, anything, but not this. Never this." Sam was on the edge of babbling, seconds away from pleading for mercy. 

Michael backhanded the other side of Sam's face this time. The blow was powerful enough that the chair pitched and almost tipped backward, forcing the archangel to grab it to prevent Sam from crashing to the floor. Not that Sam noticed. He had been hit so hard that he almost blacked out for a few seconds. 

He eventually returned to consciousness shortly after, waking to blood in his mouth and the sense that he had a fractured jaw. 

"Don't argue with your master," warned Michael. His voice jerked Sam out of his stunned gaze. "I certainly hope that Castiel doesn't put up with this behavior from you."

Eyes wide, Sam stared into the archangel's face, unable to find the words to say. Somehow he knew begging wouldn't work. Saying 'no' would be the same as putting a sticky-note on his forehead that said _please beat me._ In this situation, there was truly nothing he could do, nothing but deny that this was happening. 

"Perhaps that's too much to ask for. I know Castiel allows you to get away with murder, but for the sake of his good name, I'm going to teach you how to behave in the presence of your superiors. That includes being quiet and obeying," said Michael, his breath in Sam's ear, "Can you do that, Sam? Or are you too stupid to be competent enough to follow basic instructions?" 

Normally Sam's blood would have boiled at being called stupid. Before the angels first came to earth and ruined everything he had always dreamt of going to college, so he was very defensive over stuff like that. Hell, Dean had once made the mistake of playfully calling Sam 'more brawn than brains' and Sam had almost broken Dean's nose over it. His own brother.

That was a long time ago.

"Well?" Michael raised an eyebrow.

Sam didn't want to answer. He couldn't bring himself to give in, because that would be shameful, cowardly even. But god, he was terrified not to. 

"I'll just have to teach you to follow instructions, then," said Michael. 

One of his arms went just below Sam's shoulder blades, the other under the crook of Sam's knees as he lifted the human out of the chair bridal-style. Michael lifted him with ease and began to carry him over to the large couch. 

Sam knew it would be easier if he didn't struggle, but instinct won out over common sense and he thrashed in Michael's arms, kicking and bucking and doing anything he could to get away. _This isn't happening. It isn't happening. I'm fine. Just get away, get away, this isn't happening—_

Michael dropped him onto the couch. Sam tried to roll his body off of it, but the angel grabbed him by the back of the shirt and roughly hauled him back up. Sam's back was pressed against the cushions, his cuffed hands effectively pinned underneath of himself as Michael straddled his hips to keep him in place. 

" _No. _" His voice sounded strangled and twisted, foreign to even his own ears. Sam's breath burst passed his lips in short gasps. Unable to move, staring up into the horrible grinning face of his captor, it began to hit him that maybe he wasn't getting out of this.__

Before, pure denial, the idea that 'this could never happen to me' had been enough to convince him that it wouldn't. This sort of thing, which he now refused to name, happened to other people, but not to Sam. Not to him, never him, and that had got him through. Not anymore. 

"First thing you will learn: obey without question. This we obviously need to work on. Secondly, you will address every angel you meet however they demand, and always with respect." Michael started to undo the drawstring of Sam's sweatpants as he spoke. 

Sam jumped. His body jerked when he felt the weight of hands so close to a place where they didn't belong. 

Michael was unimpressed by Sam's struggles. One of the hands pulled away, drew back, and collided with Sam's face before he even had time to prepare himself. 

Sam couldn't help it. He howled with pain when the blow jostled his fractured jaw and tears sprung to his eyes, though he did everything he could to stop them from falling. 

"You will not struggle, and you will address me as _sir._ Do you understand?" The archangel growled. 

A sob began to rise in Sam's chest, but he tried to force it down. He just wanted Dean. 

_I'm fine,_ he reminded himself, despite knowing it was a lie, _Just get through this, get back to Dean._ It was all untruthful, but still, he could pretend it was somewhat comforting. 

"Yes, sir." Sam's voice was a shaking whisper. 

"Good human. Now, remain still." 

"But—" 

This time when Michael hit him Sam passed out longer than before. It had to have been at least five minutes before an irritated Michael pulled the disoriented human out of unconsciousness. 

For a second Sam forgot where he was, but when the darkness faded to Michael's snarling face, it all crashed back down. 

"Remain still, and do. Not. Argue." The angel's teeth revealed themselves to be very white and very sharp as his lip curled. 

Sam was still trying not to cry and he sniffled. "Y-yes, sir." 

The snarl became an almost animalistic smile. Michael pressed a surprisingly chaste kiss against Sam's forehead. "Good human," he said, repeating the words from earlier. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, his stomach doing flip-flops. 

Michael finished with drawstring, sliding Sam's pants down his hips. The human was trembling violently. Goosebumps spread over the surface of his exposed skin. 

The archangel laughed, a deep rumble that sent shivers down Sam's spine. His fingers trailed up and down the skin of the human's leg. "You know," he said, "That you were promised to my brother Lucifer?" 

Sam's heart was beating in his throat. "The… Y-you mean the _devil?_ " 

"His perfect vessel. Supposedly, you fit him like a glove." Michael grinned. "Lucifer would have a true fit if he knew I have his favorite toy." 

" 'M not your toy," said Sam with a shudder. "I don't want this." 

He expected many reactions, but another laugh wasn't one of them. "Maybe not. But you don't get that choice, and anyway, you should consider yourself lucky it's me and not him. Lucifer would not be nearly so kind." 

Sam didn't really even know what that meant, but he felt another shudder run through his body. 

Sam's pants had been tossed to the floor. He tried to stay still to keep out of trouble, and he succeeded, even when Michael pressed down on his chest to hold him still. But when Michael tried to remove his underwear it was a different story. Panic took over. 

He tried to wrench his hands free to push Michael away. "Please—!" He choked out. 

The angel pinned Sam's hands down easily and he ripped the underwear away. Tears of humiliation and fear pricked at his eyes, he was shaking his head and babbling, trying to come up with something, anything, that might spark mercy within Michael's twisted soul. If Michael even had one. 

"If you don't shut your mouth, I will remove your tongue with metal tongs," hissed Michael, "Shut up." 

He fell silent. There was nowhere to turn, no direction to go but up and Sam couldn't even hope to get Michael off of him. A human would never be stronger than an angel. He noticed there was blood on the couch cushion — his nose must've been bleeding from being hit so many times. 

"Good. Let's see how long you can behave," said Michael, leaving Sam to wonder how his voice sounded so calm so suddenly. He felt Michael's hand rest on the side of his ass. The touch was cold and firm. 

Sam knew better than to struggle by now, but he pushed that rule as much as he could, straining against his bonds as he tried to escape from pure force of will. As much as he wished it to be so, it wasn't happening. His arms and legs trembled from exertion, the skin of his wrists became raw from rubbing against the cuffs as he tried to snap them. 

"If you hadn't been so terribly disrespectful and disobedient this could have been much easier on you. You may have even liked it," said Michael. The sound of a bottle opening cut between his words and Sam's frantic breathing. 

_I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you—_

"I'll be using lubricant, though that is for my comfort, not yours," Michael continued, "Because of your behavior, however, I've decided you don't deserve the luxury of preparation." 

Sam's eyes had previously been tightly shut, but now they snapped open. He had never had sex with a guy before, and never mind bottomed, but he wasn't an idiot. He knew this would hurt like hell without prep, even cause serious damage. His heart seemed to stop. 

"Please," he said breathlessly, "Please. I-I'm sorry, I'll be good, okay? I’ll behave, I promise, just—" 

Michael's fingers dug into the skin of Sam's ass, hard. "You want me to prepare you?" 

Sam didn't want to do this at all, but there was no stopping it. He knew prep could be the difference between torture and torture with prolonged suffering. Between the two horrible options, he knew which he preferred, and it wasn't the latter. 

"Please," he begged. 

Michael's head cocked to the side. "Now you want to be compliant? I think it's a tad late for that. If you want luxuries such as preparation you need to show you deserve it through obedience, not fear of pain." 

Sam's heart dropped into his stomach. "I'll obey," he cried, "I promise, I-I can obey, just please don't do this without—" 

Sam yelped when he felt a tug on his flaccid cock. Michael laughed a little at his reaction. 

"Something you would do well to remember, Sam," said the angel, "Is that while good behavior is sometimes rewarded, disobedience is _always_ punished." 

Before the human could react Michael's hands spread the cheeks of Sam's ass. Sam buried his face into the cushion as best as he could, hot tears of shame and frustration cutting trails through the sweat and blood on his face without permission. He was immobile and exhausted, with nothing to do but try not to cry out as Michael spread Sam's legs and settled himself between them. 

The lube was cold. Sam shivered and whimpered when it unexpectedly dropped against the sensitive skin of his hole. 

"Stop whining, it'll warm up," said Michael dismissively. 

The sensations came in a flood. Sam heard the whisper of leather against cloth as Michael removed his belt. He felt Michael's lips pressed against his throat, felt a hand tug on his cock painfully hard and then Michael's amused smile against his skin when Sam yelped. The long, hard length of the archangel's cock came to rest against his hole. 

"Please don't do this," he heard himself whisper. With these sensations emotions brewed, fear and pain and brokenness and denial blending into a complex terror that he knew showed itself quite plainly on his face. 

Something hard pushed between the cheeks of his ass, slicked wet and prodding against the skin there. Sam’s reaction was involuntary; his whole body seemed to draw into himself, his muscles tightening as he tensed. Somewhere far away in his head was the sensible thought, _I gotta relax, I gotta relax or he’ll rip me up_ , but presently he found he was only capable of trying to withdraw within himself. It was too strange, no one had ever seen him this way before, or touched him in such a place. This sort of intimacy was foreign to Sam. 

Michael’s weight was heavy on top of him, his lips soft against Sam’s shoulder until he scraped his teeth against the skin hard enough to draw blood. Sam screamed through his teeth. 

“I would tell you to relax, but it doesn’t matter to me. It will be equally as entertaining for me one way or another,” said Michael, “Besides, it seems to me that you _want_ this to hurt. You like pain, don’t you, Sam?” 

The pressure against his hole increased. “Please, _please_ , don’t.” His voice sounded distant even to himself. 

“It’s because you feel guilty, isn’t it? You feel like you deserve this. You deserve pain.” Michael pressed an almost loving kiss to the side of Sam’s throat. “Go on, don’t relax, then. Make it hurt. You know you deserve it. This is how you will atone for your failures.” 

Michael’s body shifted, his hips slid roughly against the inside of Sam’s thighs, and Sam felt something give way. There was a moment of shocked nothing. Then, Michael was rocking deeper, harder, there was a painfully slow, burning push and the angel was inside of him. 

There was nothing Sam could have done to prepare himself for how badly it hurt. He choked, his body twitching and his chest gripped by spasms. The burn introduced a stabbing ache into his abdomen that swirled around his hips and traveled up his spine. 

Sam felt choked cry escape his throat. 

Something deep inside of him seemed to tear, and a scream ripped its way out of Sam’s chest as Michael slid even deeper inside. 

The stretching, burning pressure became worse, and Sam sobbed, because how could this possibly get worse? But it did, his body was being crushed into the couch as Michael propped himself up and began to pull back before slamming his hips forward again. _He’s inside me,_ thought Sam, and that alone was torture. 

“No,” he rasped out, but it went by unheard. 

Michael’s hands slid down to Sam’s hips where he gripped them so tightly that his nails bit half-moon shapes into the skin. When he thrust his hips up, he pulled Sam’s body down, slamming him against the angel’s cock with twice the force as before. Sam could think of nothing other than the pain. His thighs were slick with something; he had the feeling that it wasn’t lube but blood. 

There was no air in Sam’s lungs. He had never been pushed so hard, he had never felt such intimate violence crushing against his body while he was ripped to shreds from the inside out. 

“Don’t cry, tiny human,” said Michael, and Sam realized he was weeping silently. “You’re getting what you asked for. After all, Dean would’ve escaped from me if you hadn’t slowed him down, so be comforted that you're making it up to him. You don’t need to be afraid of this.” 

Sam’s breath was coming in sobs that tore their way out of him. “St-stop, please, just _stop…_ ” 

“Shh. When you cry like that it makes you ugly. It’s rather unbecoming, especially for one so pretty considering that you’re a human.” Michael’s tongue, coarse and wet, flicked against Sam’s earlobe and his hips jerked back into Sam’s body, hard. 

Everything burned. His ass, his pelvis, his throat, his eyes, his wrists. Sam pressed his face into the couch cushion. He was crying harder, gasping, ragged sobs that tore their way out of him because nothing had ever hurt so badly, not ever, not like this. 

Michael’s breathing became labored and heavy. He picked up the pace, a hand on Sam’s throat that kept him pinned while he started fucking Sam into the couch. Unable to breathe, trapped in a cage of his own agony, Sam started to lose consciousness. The world began to fade around him. 

The next thing he knew someone was rubbing his chest in small circles. Sam blinked his red, watering eyes open, waiting for them to adjust while he desperately tried to remember where he was. 

There was a mixture of blood, sweat, and semen all over his lower half. Michael grinned at him. Sam realized with a jolt that the angel must’ve come all over him. 

“Let me see your eyes,” said the angel, and the grin widened. 

Sam felt his lower lip wobbling but he opened his eyes and looked at Michael, feeling them well up with new tears. His breaths were uneven and shallow. Worst of all, he still hurt, a repetitive stabbing pain throbbed away deep inside of him. 

“Good.” Michael cupped Sam’s face with one hand, turning it this way and that until he seemed satisfied. “You’re learning to obey.” 

“ _Why?_ ” Sam choked out. 

Michael’s hand, which was previously loosely cupping Sam’s face, dropped to grab him by the chin so tightly that it hurt. 

“Because you seem to have it stuck inside your head that your body still belongs to you,” said Michael, “You belong to whoever owns you, Sam. This wasn’t rape. It was hardly even sex. You belong to your angel, and really that just makes it masturbation.” 

Sam lowered his eyes. “I belong to Castiel, not you,” he whispered and braced himself to be hit again. 

Michael didn’t hit him. 

“Castiel belongs to heaven.” The angel’s voice was icy, sending waves of fear down Sam’s spine. “And heaven belongs to me. _Everything_ is mine.” 

Sam stayed where he was, curled up into a little ball. Something about those words combined with the pain, fear, and overwhelming emotions resulting from what had happened to him suddenly left him feeling dead. So he really was Michael’s, then, in a way. Sam could never get away from him. He could never experience peace, not ever again, not as long as Michael was alive. 

“For heaven’s sake, why are you crying?” Michael demanded, standing up with an expression of disgust on his face. “Pull yourself together and get dressed.” 

Sam hadn’t even realized there were more tears on his face, betraying him. He wiped the traiterous drops away with the heel of his hand and swallowed hard. 

_Right, my clothes,_ he thought, _focus on that._ After all, he was very naked, and Michael had already tucked himself back into his pants. 

“Wipe off, too. You look disgusting.” 

Of course. Drenched in sweat, covered in semen, and with blood slick against the inside of his thighs, Sam knew he looked a mess. _But you’re the one who made me this way,_ he wanted to say. Instead, he kept quiet. After all, he knew better than to speak his mind. 

The disgusted sneer on Michael’s face made Sam want to curl up and die from shame. More than anything in the world he wanted a shower. No, scratch that — he wanted Dean. Even Castiel would do. Right now, Sam just wanted to be away from the one who was hurting him. 

Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, and it was all he could do to not start crying all over again when pain stabbed from his rear all the way up his spine. Of course it still hurt, it wasn’t as if something like that would be gone as soon as the act itself was over, but the aftereffect was so much more than he had anticipated. Gingerly he wiped himself off and pulled his clothes back on. 

“Stand up,” ordered Michael. 

_Ow ow ow ow—_

Holding back a whimper, Sam sniffled and stood up. He tried to pretend the pain wasn’t there but it didn’t really work. No matter what it seemed to be all that his senses could fathom. 

Michael studied him again. “At least you’re less of a mess now,” he said, with a sigh that almost sounded disappointed. Sam had a feeling that Michael liked him much better when he didn’t have clothes on. 

The thought made him shiver. 

“Besides your genuine attractiveness, you have other uses, you know.” _Thanks, I think?_ “I’m going to bring you to my factory. Most laborers end up there, so I think it would be rather fitting for that to be the place where you learn to do your job.” 

“Is that where you would’ve brought me if Castiel hadn’t—” Mid-sentence, Sam realized he hadn’t asked for permission to speak, and wasn’t that something he was supposed to do? He winced, his shoulders hunching up to his ears. 

Michael didn’t get angry. Sam couldn’t bring himself to look at his face, but going off the sound of his voice, Michael sounded almost amused. “Maybe. But then, it would be somewhat of a waste to have you working where I would rarely get to see you. Just because you’ve been placed into a certain working category doesn’t mean it can’t be legally changed by your master, and I had every intention of making you a pleasurer and keeping you by my side at all times.” The angel gave a soft laugh. “My little pet.” 

Sam felt his body stumble backward as some sort of instinct kicked in. His brain screamed at him to get as far away from Michael as possible, but instead, all that happened was the backs of his legs hit the edge of the couch and he fell back onto it. In his moment of terror, he forgot how sore he was and couldn’t help but gasp in pain when it felt like a spike was being shoved through his pelvis. 

Sam realized with horror that the couch smelled of blood and sweat, and he launched back to his feet. 

“Don’t be so dramatic.” The angel would’ve rolled his eyes if he wasn’t so high-and-mighty. “Also, though I didn’t reprimand you this time, remember that you are not to speak unless you are spoken to. Do you understand?” 

Sam kept his head down, arms wrapped around his torso, and nodded. 

_I want to go home, I want Dean, I want to go home, I want…_

“Fly, you’ve been addressed by an angel. I expect a verbal response,” said Michael impatiently. 

“Yes,” whispered Sam. 

“Yes _what?_ Don’t waste my time.” 

Sam’s stomach dropped. 

“Yes, sir.” The words left a taste of poison in Sam’s mouth. 

He flinched when suddenly Michael’s hand started combing through his hair, smoothing it down in a way that would almost be comforting if it were anybody else. “Good little human,” he said, in a voice that was soft but not in any way devoid of mockery. “Obedience does wonders for you.” 

Sam could feel his body shaking. Michael suddenly took hold of Sam’s forearm, his grip so tight that it hurt. He pulled the human close, so close that Sam could smell his cologne. The next thing he knew his feet weren’t even touching the floor. Air seemed to whoosh around them. 

Abruptly, Michael let go and Sam crashed against a cement floor. 

Logic told him that Michael had flown the both of them to the factory, but it felt like Sam had just been hit in the gut with a baseball bat. Inhaling deeply, he tried to catch his breath. The air smelled of metal and smoke. He could hear machinery and the sound of people moving all around him. The air itself was thick with sweat and misery. 

“Get up.” 

Sam would’ve liked to wait for the pain to fade, but he knew better than to ignore a command. Gingerly he got back to his feet and took his first full look at the factory. 

It was huge. Bigger than two warehouses stacked on top of each other, and with different floors, too. Conveyor belts fed in and out of huge machines, as well as large furnaces that spewed sparks and made the air seem to glow red. It was deathly hot. All of the slaves, of which there had to be over a hundred, were in minimal clothing and pouring sweat. 

Sam’s eyes widened when he saw the scars crisscrossing their bodies. No human should be able to take that much damage and survive; he had a feeling that were it not for heaven’s ability to keep them immortal most of these people should be dead. 

“It’s like clockwork. They don’t stop working, which keeps the factory running.” Michael had a twisted expression of pride on his face. “They don’t even need to sleep. Their sole purpose to run those machines and produce all of the weapons heaven could need.” 

Sam felt weak in the knees. A million questions were running through his head that he knew he couldn’t ask, warning signs in his head told him to run even though to do so would only yield punishment. 

Somewhere behind them, a scream so far away that it was just a faint echo bounced off the impossibly high ceilings. Michael didn’t even look back. 

“It’s just the new shipment,” he said dismissively. “Follow.” 

Michael didn’t look back to see if Sam was keeping close and started to walk deeper into the factory. With a jolt, Sam realized that Michael meant a shipment of people, not supplies. A shot of cold ran down his spine and hurried to catch up, following what he hoped was a safe distance behind Michael. 

As they got closer, Sam could really see the place for what it was. The machines were huge, loud, and hot to the touch. The slaves were scarred everywhere but most of all their hands; their palms were nothing but raised, charred flesh from working with the red-hot metal machines. If someone stopped working for even a second or collapsed from exhaustion, an angel was there, kicking and beating them with their fists or even with whips to get the slaves back on their feet. 

Their hair was shaved short to keep from being caught in anything. Most were missing fingers, and Sam noticed a cruel mark, an Enochian symbol branded onto the backs of their necks. His throat closed up when he realized that he was just looking at shells. These were people, yes, but empty husks of humanity with no personalities or will to preserve themselves. Michael had taken everything from them. He had taken their very souls. 

“Keep up.” Michael snapped, “When accompanying your master out of their nest, you are to about five paces behind and to their left. Correct yourself immediately.” 

Sam hurried to obey, unsure of exactly how much distance a pace was and where he should be, but fear drove him forward and he tried to replicate the instructions as best as he could. 

The archangel shot him a glare and one of his eyebrows shot up; Sam realized he had done the wrong thing. He flinched, waiting for the blow— 

“You’re forgetting something.” Michael didn’t hit him. 

“Y-yes, sir,” he choked out, terrified. 

“Good. Keep up.” 

They seemed to be going to the center of the factory. The deeper they got, the worse Sam’s surroundings became. The never-ending clanging and metallic screeches from the machines grew louder. Slaves became more in numbers and in varying degrees of injury or decrepitude. Many of them were young — Sam’s age or younger. He could smell the sweat and blood coming off of their bodies. 

He found he couldn’t bear to look. Sam felt a sob rising in his throat but he held it back, sniffling instead while he focused his gaze on the ground. Or, he tried to, anyway. That wasn’t before he really got a good look at their faces, realized why they looked so strange, so dead, so dark and empty— 

“What happened to their _eyes?_ ” Sam’s voice was shrill with horror, and the question escaped even though he already knew the answer, he had heard Castiel say it before. But in his moment of panicked dread, he forgot that he wasn’t supposed to speak unless he was spoken to. 

Michael’s hand cracked across Sam’s face, the violent and intense force behind it causing Sam’s head to reel sickeningly. He fell to the ground, agony shot through his already injured jaw, and his skull bounced off the concrete floor with a disgusting _whunk_. It all happened so quickly that Sam wasn’t even aware that he had fallen — just that everything hurt. 

He couldn’t hold back tears now. Everything hurt so badly. He bit on his knuckle to keep from crying out loud, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. _Their eyes,_ he thought dismally when his senses came back to him, _What did he do to their eyes?_ His body convulsed with quiet sobs. 

_I just want to go home._ But where was home? With a pang of grief, Sam realized he wasn't sure anymore. 

“Get on your feet,” said Michael, his voice calm. 

Sam didn’t want to. He wished he could lie there, like when he was a child and he used to have nightmares. He would always hide underneath his blanket and stay completely still until he fell asleep again, that was the monsters couldn’t get him. But that wouldn’t work now. Not when the monster was staring him in the face. 

With a hiccup, Sam slowly got to his feet. He was shaking so hard that his teeth were chattering, even though it wasn’t cold. He kept his tear-filled gaze fixed firmly on the ground. He couldn’t look at those slaves, those people. He couldn’t face what had been done to them. 

“Come here.” 

Dread settled in his chest and Sam took a few hesitant steps forward. Michael turned, grabbed one of the other slaves by the upper arm and dragged them over. 

Sam thought that this person had once been a girl. Several of her fingers were missing, and her dark blonde hair was shorn short. She reacted to Michael’s touch with a mixture of terror yet also acceptance. It was like she knew better than to fight. There was no will to protect herself. Not even hope that it would be over quickly, just emptiness. 

“Look at her,” said Michael. He had a firm grip on the girl’s head, holding it completely still. Not that the girl was putting up much of a fight. She was as limp as a ragdoll. 

Sam was terrified of what he’d see. Surely it couldn’t be that bad, right? He had seen things on earth, terrible, terrible things, so this shouldn’t be too hard to look at, he should just be able to do it, just get it over with— 

He couldn’t bring himself to even lift his head. 

“I said, look at her.” Michael shoved the girl’s head forward, so close that Sam was almost touching her. He could feel her fearful and shallow breaths on his skin. 

He took a frightened step back. “I can’t,” he whispered. 

Michael’s voice was in Sam’s ear, low and dangerously soft. “Bad behavior is always punished,” he said, repeating part of the phrase from earlier, “Obey. Or your punishment will become hers.” 

All around him, the noise of the machines seemed to scream. The heat became insufferable. Sam wanted out, for the love of god, he just wanted out, he just wanted to get away… 

He couldn’t choke it back anymore and a sob escaped his lips, but for the sake of the girl, Sam slowly lifted his gaze and looked into her eyes. 

Or lack thereof, anyway. 

Her eye sockets had been almost melted shut. That was the only way to describe it. Something hot appeared to have been pressed over the eyes and eyelids, permanent scarring from the heat eradicated vision and left only charred, black skin over indents where the eyes should have been. The wide, encrusted blackness over her eyes sent a wave of disgust through Sam’s body when he saw the oozing red flesh underneath. 

An ear-splitting crack cut through the sound of machinery. The girl’s head jutted out and to the side in a sickening awkward angle. 

Michael released the grip he had on her head, and the girl’s body tumbled loosely to the ground. Her broken neck was already turning purple. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. 

Stunned silence. 

Sam’s brain stuttered as it frantically tried to understand what his eyes were seeing. Once, when he was very young, he and Dean were climbing a tree together back home. Dean was stronger, so he could always get higher, but Sam made up for strength with speed. He was trying to catch up to his brother when he missed the branch, falling ten feet to the ground and landing flat on his back. 

He was probably about eight when that had happened, but he still remembered how every breath of air had been knocked from his lungs while he lay there, struggling to inhale, exhale, to do anything while a panicked Dean ran to get their dad. 

That’s how Sam felt now. Unable to move, unable to speak or even breathe with the girl’s dead body lying limply on the ground in front of him. 

“You should have obeyed,” said Michael coldly. 

Sam didn’t know what to say if he should say anything at all. He wasn’t even sure if he was capable of speech at the moment. 

_She’s dead,_ he thought numbly. Her neck, swollen and elongated and twisted, was turning purple from the amount of blood pooling beneath the skin. _Did I do that?_

Michael’s hand shot out and he grabbed Sam by the throat, his grip crushing. Sam was dreadfully reminded of the day that the angels had kidnapped them. Hadn’t it started out something like this? A hand on his throat, and then he woke up in heaven… It was horrifying but almost poetic. 

“Did you learn from this, Sam?” Michael asked, “Did she teach you anything?” 

Gasping for breath, he wheezed out, “Y-yes, sir—” 

“What was it you learned?” 

“N-not to speak without permission and…” It was getting harder to breathe. “… w-without being sp-spoken to.” 

Michael’s grip tightened and Sam felt his vision fading. “Anything else?” 

“T-to obey, sir.” 

The words were just a wisp of his voice, a shred of sound that was almost lost in the chaos of the factory. Sam’s throat was being crushed. Terrible fright shot through him when for a second he thought Michael hadn’t heard him, but all too suddenly he was released. Oxygen rushed back into his lungs so fast that he became dizzy. 

“I would have you remove the body,” said Michael, and Sam shuddered, “But you’ve already stalled for far too long. For the last time, follow me, and do _not_ make me stop again, or you will be very sorry.” 

“Yes, s-sir.” Sam had been strangled for too long, his damaged voice was nothing more than a rasp. His head pounded painfully as an effect of oxygen deprivation. 

Sam added it to the list of things that were hurting, kept himself to five paces behind Michael and to the left, and began to follow even when hot shame told him that this was pathetic. That Dean would put up more of a fight. That Dean would be embarrassed if he saw the state his little brother was in. 

In the center of the factory, there was a roped-off area. A desk was there, as was a chair, and two angels standing on either side. One held a leather switch in his hand. They appeared to be overseers, and the seating area was undoubtedly Michael’s. Sam guessed that Michael probably had one of these on each floor. 

For pillars held up a canvas cover, probably to prevent soot or ash from raining down on Michael while he worked. Indeed, it was the only clean place in the factory, devoid of dirt, ash, and blood. From here there was a clear view of all that was happening on this floor of the factory. That was probably why Michael had chosen this spot; he was in charge and he could see every part of this floor. 

“I don’t work here often. It’s very loud, which makes for unpleasant working conditions. Today, however, is a little different.” said Michael. “Kneel next to the desk. Keep your knees shoulder-width apart, absolutely do not rest your weight on your heels, and keep your hands behind your back.” 

Sam was too exhausted and afraid to be humiliated. He found he didn’t even care when one of the angels standing nearby smirked at him. He just wanted it all to be over. 

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine Dean’s face. It didn’t work. 

“This position is called the position of respect. This is how your angel should find you when they get home to their nest at the end of every day, and it is in this position you should remain in the event that your angel has company unless explicitly stated otherwise,” said Michael. He didn’t look at Sam as he spoke, just shuffled through papers on his desk. 

Already Sam’s knees were beginning to hurt. At first he hadn’t thought it would be a problem, but now, the urge to settle his weight on his heels instead of hovering over them was immense. His legs began to ache. 

Still, he knew what would happen if he moved, so he took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to remain steady. 

“The position of respect may also be used for punishment. Your angel may tell you to assume the position for as long as they deem fit to make up for your slight.” Michael set the stack of papers down, picked up a pen, twirling it between his fingers. “You are going to stay there for as long as it takes for Azael to get here.” 

Sam was hardly paying attention, just trying to remain upright as his legs began to tremble. “Yes, sir,” he murmured automatically. 

Michael patted the top of Sam’s head. Sam whimpered, associating Michael’s hand with being hit, but the angel simply combed his fingers gently through the boy’s hair. “You’re learning. Good.” 

For some reason, hearing those words felt… nice. It was like putting a band-aid over a bullethole — nothing was fixed and no comfort was brought, but Sam had known only violence at Michael’s hand for so long that any form of praise was more than welcome. Especially now. 

Metal clanging, a scream, the stench of sweat, immense and undying heat. Everything about this place was trying to devour him alive. 

_Focus,_ he told himself. He tried to stay completely still, to remain in position. 

But it was so hard. His face hurt from being hit so many times. His jaw ached. His throat burned, his wrists were bleeding from pulling against the metal cuffs while Michael had attacked the most innocent parts of his body— 

_Don’t think about that, just don’t. Focus, dammit!_ The thoughts came in a frantic stream as Sam desperately tried to remain in control. 

Several minutes went by. His legs were shaking even more from the effort it took to hold his body up, and if something didn’t happen, Sam was going to collapse. He knew it. He was going to mess up and then Michael would hurt him. Sam couldn’t handle that right now. He just _couldn’t…_

Sweat had long since broken out on his face but now a tear cut through as he realized he was going to get in trouble again. His breaths came in sharp, broken gasps. 

“There you are, Azael,” said Michael, his voice neither warm or cold, and Sam let out a breath of relief. 

“I apologize for the wait.” The voice was deep, gruff. Sam tried not to stare, but he managed to match the voice to a man who was very tall with strong arms and dark, coffee-colored skin. “I had to find the right set.” 

“As long as you have them all is well,” said Michael dismissively. “Sam, you may sit however you find comfortable.” 

Sam immediately shifted some of his weight to his ankles and sat on his heels. It would’ve been more comfortable to just sit on the floor, but even though he had permission, he was honestly afraid to move too much. Michael must’ve noticed this because he grinned. Thankfully, the angel chose not to comment on it, but Sam’s face still flushed pink. 

The whole place smelled of smoke, but a fresh wave of it became directly apparent. Sam craned his neck a little to see behind Azael where the source seemed to be. There was a small iron brazier there. Inside of it, glowing tinder like red-hot wires put out smoke, and Sam watched with morbid fascination as the sparks sprung into a lambent flame. 

Inside the brazier was a long, iron rod. He couldn’t see the end of it but he knew that it was glowing with heat. 

Gripped by numbing fear, all Sam found himself able to do was look at Michael, searching for an answer in the angel’s cold features. Michael paid him no mind. He and Azael were talking, loud enough for Sam to hear, but their words went by with no understanding as the human’s body was consumed by trepidation. 

He thought about how the slaves were blinded and wondered if this was how it was done. Or maybe this was the brand he had seen, the Enochian symbol pressed against the slaves’ flesh with a scathing intensity that remained there forever. 

The dread crept over Sam like an icy chill. His thoughts were numbed, as was his body. In this frozen state, his mind was capable of offering only one thought. _I can’t stop them._ There would be no avoiding it, whatever it was. He felt like hoarse being crammed into a truck for the slaughterhouse, only the horse had no idea what was going to happen to it and Sam could take a wild guess. 

Sam didn’t even realize he was hyperventilating until once again, Michael’s hand dropped over the edge of his desk and began to smooth down his hair. “Calm down, be quiet.” 

He wanted to ask questions. He wanted to know what was in store. But if he spoke he would be beaten, or perhaps this made worse, and Sam was too gripped by fear to argue with the submissive logic keeping him safe. 

Michael gave Azael nod. “Proceed.” 

Azael lifted the iron. It was long, and near the bottom, it forked into two short ends glowing red with heat. Each end a small, flat disk at the bottom that was about the size of a quarter. They were the perfect size and distance apart to fit over his eyes. 

Sam whimpered and tried to go backward, but Michael must’ve been anticipating with because his hand was there in between Sam’s shoulder blades to keep him in place. 

A steady stream of frantic pleading and tearful begging was bursting past his lips, but they were involuntary. Sam had no idea what he was saying and Michael didn’t punish him for it. His senses were completely consumed by the glowing red getting closer and closer with every passing second. 

“Please, please, _don’t,_ I can’t—” Sam tried to turn his head but Michael was ready for that too. Sam could hear his voice rising and getting more and more frantic as the heat warmed his face. He was sobbing again, stopping only when he needed to breathe, trying to move, to get away, anything, _anything._

It wasn’t warm anymore. Sam felt the skin around his eyes split open, curling and blistering, and at first, he couldn’t decide if the touch of the iron was hot or ice cold. 

But then it was hot. Far, far too hot, and Sam was screaming, _screaming_ , but he couldn't hear it, aware only of his agony. He kept screaming. The pain didn’t stop. It seemed like it never would. 

So on it went, with the sounds of Sam’s misery bouncing off the high factory walls to be eventually lost amongst the noise of machinery. 


End file.
